FREE LOVE.
23
I passed again the toiler's cot;The father sat, dark-browedHard by his desolate hearth-stone,His children, motherless;For she whom he loved had caught,The glamor of the sorceress' wiles,And so departed.
The field that late in golden beauty bloomedLay desolate, and sheWhose starry eyes did mock the heaven,Stood with bared breast, and in her arms a babe.Then casting to the earth her gaze,She lifted up her voice and wept."Ah me! that e'er I saw thy face, thou fiend,Or listened to thy smooth, fair seeming tongue,My babe, fatherless.For he who gave thee being, worships her."
And he who held entrancedWith words of truth, the multitude;Did grovel in the dust,His splendid brow fronting a brain, wherein reigned chaos.Then thought I, where two roads did meet,There stood a holy man, whose hoary locksDid reverence command.He, lifting up his voice, cried"Hear ye, Oh! righteous God.Thine altars are defiled,
