Page:Poems Cook.djvu/310

My power can change the purest clay
 From its first and beautiful mould;
Till it hideth from the face of day,
 Too hideous to behold.

Mark ye the wretch that has cloven and cleft
 The skull of the lonely one;
And quail'd not at purpling his blade to the heft,
 To make sure that the deed was done:

Fair seeds were sown in his infant breast,
 That held goodly blossom and fruit;
But I trampled them down—Man did the rest—
 And God's image grew into the brute.

He hath been driven, and hunted, and scourged,
 For the sin I bade him do;
He hath wrought the lawless work I urged,
 Till blood seem'd fair to his view.

I shriek with delight to see him bedight
 In fetters that chink and gleam;
"He is mine!" I shout, as they lead him out
 From the dungeon to the beam.

See the lean boy clutch his rough-hewn crutch
 With limbs all warp'd and worn;
While he hurries along through a noisy throng,
 The theme of their gibing scorn.

Wealth and Care would have rear'd him straight
 As the towering, mountain pine;
But I nursed him into that halting gait
 And wither'd his marrowless spine.

Pain may be heard on the downy bed,
 Heaving the groan of despair;
For suffering shuns not the diadem'd head,
 And abideth everywhere.

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