DOLORES.
37
DOLORES.
IS he well blest who has no eyes to scan
The woful things that shadow all our life:
The latent brute behind the eyes of man,
The place and power gained and stained by strife,
The weakly victims driven to the wall,
The subtile cruelties that meet us all
Like eyes from darksome places? Blest is he
Who such sad things is never doomed to see!
The crust of common life is worn by time,
And shines deception, as a thin veneer
The raw plank hides, or as the frozen mere
Holds drowned men embedded in its slime;
The ninety eat their bread of death and crime,
And sin and sorrow that the ten may thrive.
O, moaning sea of life! the few who dive
Beneath thy waters, faint and short of breath,
