LI.
Vain hope! Alas! unable to forget
The anxious task's long, heavy agonies,
In broken sleep the victim labors yet!
Waiting the boding stroke that bids him rise,
He marks in restless fear each hour that flies—
Anticipates the unwelcome morning prime—
And murmuring feebly, with unwakened eyes,
"Mother! Oh Mother! is it yet the Time?"
Starts at the moon's pale ray—or clock's far distant chime.
LII.
Such is his day and night! Now then return
Where your Own slumber in protected ease;
They whom no blast may pierce, no sun may burn;
The lovely, on whose cheeks the wandering breeze
Hath left the rose's hue. Ah! not like these
Does the pale infant-laborer ask to be:
He craves no tempting food—no toys to please—
Not Idleness, but less of agony;
Not Wealth,—but comfort, rest, Contented Poverty.
LIII.
There is, among all men, in every clime,
A difference instinctive and unschooled:
God made the Mind unequal. From all time
By fierceness conquered, or by cunning fooled,
The World hath had its Rulers and its Ruled:—
Yea—uncompelled—men abdicate free choice,
Fear their own rashness, and, by thinking cooled,
Follow the counsel of some trusted voice;—
A self-elected sway, wherein their souls rejoice.
