LOYE OF WEALTH.
��EARTH ! thou gorg'd and mighty sepulchre ! How find'st thou room for all the born of clay, From him, the sire of Eden, to the babe That gasps this hour ?
Why need we join the race For shadows on thy surface ? hastening on Ourselves like shadows, to the common home That waits the dead.
What boots a broad domain, A lordly heritage, for which are feuds, Heart-burnings, and, perchance, a brother's blood ? Show me the face, upon thy country's map, Of that estate which lust hath coveted, And fraud obtain'd. Show me its waving trees, Its pleasant hillocks, and its corn-clad vales. Thou canst not ! Boast they not one narrow space Upon the picture ? Yet for this a soul Hath lost its place in Heaven !
Ah ! shall we throw Love, truth, and conscience, in the ill-pois'd scale,
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