Poems (Terry, 1861)/Fraternité
FRATERNITÉ.
Crœsus, gilt martyr of a bank, Barred round with ingots yellow,The poet whom you do not thank, Is not a "wretched fellow"!The garret of his dreaming sleep Is tapestried with splendor,Whose glitter makes no angels weep; His heart is true and tender.
Poet, the Dives you despise Has pleasure in his money!Dear butterfly, some beauty lies To bees in making honey!The gold and jewels of your flowers He copies in his treasure;Must all your brother's happy hours Be meted with your measure?
Fair woman, whose averted eyes Cast scorn on shame's poor daughter, The soul whose kindred yours denies Was limpid once as water!Who kept thee from the precipice, Where sin with love-lips kissed her?Through Him who granted Mary's peace, Pray for thy wretched sister!
And thou, on earth most desolate, Blame not the passer by thee,Whose veiled eyes droop not out of hate, Whose thoughts no love deny thee!If custom-kept, she walks apart, Her pity grows the stronger;And louder echo through her heart His words,—"Go, sin no longer."
If there are mountains in the world, Are there not also valleys!Where Love's blue standard swings unfurled, There every true heart rallies.Ranked in one hope, the difference dies That keeps us from each other,And underneath millennial skies, Each man becomes a brother.