The “moral sense,” your Zâhid-phrase,
is but the gift of latest years;
Conscience was born when man had shed
his fur, his tail, his pointed ears.
What conscience has the murd’erous Moor,
who slays his guest with felon blow,
Save sorrow he can slay no more,
what prick of pen’itence can he know?
You cry the “Cruelty of Things”
is myst’ery to your purblind eye,
Which fixed upon a point in space
the general project passes by:
For see! the Mammoth went his ways,
became a mem’ory and a name;
While the half-reasoner with the hand
survives his rank and place to claim.