And then, fully aroused, hearing the piteous cries, the rattle
of chains, seeing the beloved face, full of woe, conscious of every
bitter, burning tear (which as it fell, seemed to sear their own
hearts), struggling to reach, to succor her, they found _themselves_
bound and powerless to save.
Alas, dear friends, that the pathway which opened so brightly, which
seemed to lead to heights of superlative glory, should have ended
beside the grave of hope. Oh, was it not hard to believe that
"whatever is is right?" To kneel submissively in this valley of
humiliation, and lift our streaming eyes to the heavens, that seemed
of brass, to the Father who, it then appeared, had forgotten to be
merciful. The glory which even then was apparent to the outside world,
could not penetrate the clouds which hung above us.
The land was yet red with blood that had been poured out in vain. From
once happy homes came wails of grief and despair.
Even the embers wore dead upon the hearths around which loved ones
should never more gather.
And since hope is dead, and naught can avail to change the decrees of
Fate, let me close this record of mingled glory and gloom, for hero
must be written,--
OMEGA.
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