Classic Poem

The Student grants it thus,—but selfish trade
Along the fair inventions closely laid,
Converts the country to a cunning town,
Nothing can stand save beating prices down.
Man's temple is the market, and his God
Is money, fall of dollars Jovian nod.
Society is leagued against the poor,
Monopolies close up from most the door
To fortune, Industry has come to be
Competitive, all,—aristocracy;
Work is monotonous, a war for wealth,
The universe is plainly out of health.
See from this mountain in the dusty towns,
A people sorely burdened, for smiles,—frowns,
No lovely groups of rustics dig the soil,
Alone each farmer ploughs, his greedy toil
Not shared with them about him, but his hand
Closed against those, who may the nearest stand.
A piteous sight, there is the Poor-house wall,
A frightful thing, there is the Prison's hall,
The courts of Justice fatten on the broil,
The church lamps feed on poor men's sweaty oil,
Where shall this misery end, has God forsook
The dwellers in these valleys, from the Book
Of Life their names forever razed; I see
Nothing around us but deep misery.