XVIII.
What is to be a slave? Is't not to spend
A life bowed down beneath a grinding ill?—
To labor on to serve another's end,—
To give up leisure, health, and strength, and skill—
And give up each of these against your will?
Hark to the angry answer:—"Theirs is not
A life of slavery; if they labor,—still
We pay their toil. Free service is their lot;
And what their labor yields, by us is fairly got."
XIX.
Oh, Men! profane not Freedom! Are they free
Who toil until the body's strength gives way?
Who may not set a term for Liberty,
Who have no time for food, or rest, or play,
But struggle through the long, unwelcome day
Without the leisure to be good or glad?
Such is their service—call it what you may.
Poor little creatures, overtasked and sad,
Your Slavery hath no name,—yet is its Curse as bad!
XX.
Again an answer. "'Tis their parents' choice.
By some employ the poor man's child must earn
Its daily bread; and infants have no voice
In what the allotted task shall be: they learn
What answers best, or suits the parents' turn."
Mournful reply! Do not your hearts inquire
Who tempts the parents' penury? They yearn
Toward their offspring with a strong desire,
But those who starve will sell, even what they most require.
