Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/81

Rh Withheld his harvest, or the thousand ills That throng the hard lot of the sons of toil Drank up his spirit. Ye indeed may hold His form incarcerate, but will that repair The trespass on your purse? To take away The means of labor, yet require the fruits Savoreth, methinks, of Pharaoh's policy. Doth Themis sanction what the code of Christ Condemns? "How readest thou?" Are there, who deem The smallest portion of their drossy gold Full counterpoise for liberty and health, And God's free air, and home's sweet charities? 'Mid the gay circle round their evening fire Sit they in luxury, while warbled song, And guest, and wine-cup speed the flying hours, Unmindful of the prison'd one who droops Within his close barr'd cell, or of the storm That hoarsely round his distant dwelling sweeps, Where she who in a lowly bed hath laid Her famish'd babes, kneels shivering at their side, Mingling the tear-gush with her lonely prayer? —Revenge may draw a subsidy from pain, Wringing stern usury from woman's woe, And infancy's distress; but is it well For souls that hasten to a dread account Of motive and of deed at Heaven's high bar, To break their Saviour's law?