Classic Poem

You call them “beasts that perish,” and you say
That we, God's higher children, have the right
To trample our dumb brothers in the clay,
And use against them all our greater might;

To force the horses on their weary way,
Urged by the stinging whip and tight-drawn rein;
To take the slow, dull cattle for our prey,
And slay the furry creatures for our gain.

They may not reach the heaven we hope to win,
And so ten thousand of their lives are naught
Against one human life, though dark with sin—
Their soulless sufferings are not worth a thought.

Not so, my friend; if this poor life be all
Our Father has vouchsafed them, surely they
To whom no glad to-morrow may befall
Have all the better claim to their to-day.