Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/105

 "Would I were dead

And vexed no more," the Old Year said;

"In vain may the preacher pray and warn,

The tinkling cymbals in your ears

Turn every gracious word to scorn;

Ye care not for the orphan's tears,

Your sides are fed and your bodies clad;

Is there anything heaven itself could add?"

And then he sighed as one who died

With a great wish unsatisfied;

Around him like a wintry sea

Whose waves were nations, surged the world,

Stormy, unstable, constantly

Upheaved to be again down-hurled.

Here struggled some for freedom; here

Oppression rode in high career.

In hot debate

Men wrestled while the hours waxed late,

Contending with the watchful zeal

Of gladiators trained to die;

Yet not for life, nor country s weal,

But that their names might hang on high

As men who loved themselves, indeed,

And robbed the state to satisfy their need.

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