96
POEMS.
—"Where shall I turn," the wretch exclaims; "where lay my shameful head?
How fly from scorn, or how contrive to earn an honest bread?
This branded hand would gladly toil; but when for work I pray,
Who sees this mark—"A Felon!" cries, and loathing turns away.
How fly from scorn, or how contrive to earn an honest bread?
This branded hand would gladly toil; but when for work I pray,
Who sees this mark—"A Felon!" cries, and loathing turns away.
"My heart has greatly erred, but now would fain revert to good;
My hand has deeply sinned, but yet has ne'er been stained with blood;
For work or alms in vain I sue; the scorners both deny:
I starve! I starve! then what remains? this choice: To sin, or die.
My hand has deeply sinned, but yet has ne'er been stained with blood;
For work or alms in vain I sue; the scorners both deny:
I starve! I starve! then what remains? this choice: To sin, or die.
"Here, Virtue spurns me with disdain; there, Pleasure spreads her snare;
Strong Habit drags me back to vice; and urged by fierce Despair,
I strive, while Hunger gnaws my heart, to fly from shame in vain:
World, 'tis thy cruel will! I yield, and plunge in guilt again.
Strong Habit drags me back to vice; and urged by fierce Despair,
I strive, while Hunger gnaws my heart, to fly from shame in vain:
World, 'tis thy cruel will! I yield, and plunge in guilt again.
