Look backward on the days of yore

Look backward on the days of yore
Upon my injured brook,
In fancy con its beauties o'er,
How it had used to look—
Oh then what trees my banks did crown,
What willows flourished here—
Hard as the axe that cut them down
The senseless wretches were!

But sweating slaves I do not blame
(Those slaves by wealth decreed),
No, I should hurt their harmless name
To brand 'em with the deed:
Although their aching hands did wield
The axe that gave the blow,
Yet 'twas not them that owned the field,
Nor planned its overthrow.

No, no, the foes that hurt my field
Hurts these poor moilers too,
And thy own bosom knows and feels
Enough to prove it true—
And oh, poor souls, they may complain,
But their complaining's all:
The injured worms that turn again,
But turn again to fall!

Their foes and mine are lawless foes,
And laws themselves they hold
Which clipt-winged Justice can't oppose,
But forcéd yields to Gold!
These are the foes of mine and me,
These all our ruin planned,
Although they never felled a tree
Or took a tool in hand.

Ah cruel foes, with plenty blest,
So hankering after more,
To lay the greens and pastures waste
Which profited before—
Poor greedy souls, what would they have,
Beyond their plenty given?
Will riches keep 'em from the grave,
Or buy them rest in Heaven?
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