"On n'est pas dans le futurisme, mais dans un drame bourgeois ou un thriller atmosphérique"
In ages past, when smit with warmth sublime,Their bards foretold the dark events of
time,And piercing forward through the mystic shade,Kings yet to come, and chiefs
unborn survey'd,Amittai's son perceiv'd, among the rest,The mighty flame usurp his
labouring breast:-For this, in dreams, the voice unerring cameOf Him, who lives
through every age the same:"Arise! and o'er the intervening waste,"To Nineveh's
imperial turrets haste;"That mighty town to ruin I decree,"Proclaim destruction, and
proclaim from me:"Too long it stands, to God and man a foe,"Without one virtue left
to shield the blow;[Pg 4]"Guilt, black as night, their speedy ruin brings,"And hottest
vengeance from the King of Kings."The prophet heard-but dared to disobey,(Weak
as he was) and fled a different way;In Joppa's port a trading ship he foundFar o'er
the main to distant Tarshish bound:The price of passage to her chief he paid,And
there conceal'd with wandering sailors stay'd,His purpose fixt, at once perverse and
blind,To leave his country, and his God behind.But He who spread the ocean's vast
expanse,And views all nature with a single glance,Forth from its prison bade the
tempest fly
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