vanish, past all seeking.
Let Christ’s blood on Christ’s own table
   Fill them, once with red blood reeking.

Men I see kun Guldets Lue,
   Ikke de Ærværdighöie!
Sæte dem som Pragt tilskue
   For et mat, nysgjerrigt Öie!

But their majesty unviewing,
   And their lustre but descrying,
Them as spectacles ye’re shewing
   To the silly and the prying.

Himlen sortner, Storme brage!
   Visse Time, du er kommen.
Hvad de gav, de tog tilbage—
   Evig bortsvandt Helligdommen.

Storm-winds bellow, blackens heaven!
   Comes the hour of melancholy;
Back is taken what was given,—
   Vanished is the relic holy.

London:
Printed for THOMAS J. WISE, Hampstead, N.W.
Edition limited to Thirty Copies.

Footnotes:

[10]  The left-hand column contains the even pages of the printed pamphlet, and the right-hand column the corresponding odd pages which appear opposite them.—DP.

***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GOLD HORNS***