Deplorable his lot who tills the ground


Deplorable his lot who tills the ground,
His whole life long tills it, with heartless toil
Of villain-service, passing with the soil
To each new Master, like a steer or hound
Or like a rooted tree, or stone earth-bound;
But mark how gladly, through their own domains,
The Monks relax or break these iron chains;
While Mercy, uttering, through their voice, a sound
Echoed in Heaven, cries out, " Ye Chiefs, abate
These legalized oppressions! Man — whose name
And nature God disdained not; Man — whose soul
Christ died for — cannot forfeit his high claim
To live and move exempt from all controul
Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate!"
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.