Poems (Van Rensselaer)/The Children's Heritage
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THE CHILDREN'S HERITAGE
The old Earth pardons much, but overpass
The mark her bounty sets and merciless
Her punishments. No patient waters bless
Their parching intervales, no deep pools glass
Their naked flanks, where her sad mountains stand
That once were thick with greenness—ravished, rent,
Mothers to-day of torrents fiercely spent
To broaden ruin in a ruined land.
The mark her bounty sets and merciless
Her punishments. No patient waters bless
Their parching intervales, no deep pools glass
Their naked flanks, where her sad mountains stand
That once were thick with greenness—ravished, rent,
Mothers to-day of torrents fiercely spent
To broaden ruin in a ruined land.
Stones he shall have for bread who seeks it here,
For fruitage, harvests of the crumbling rock;
Dust for his drink, while far mirages mock
The backward dreaming of the desperate year.
—Who sees? Who heeds? Again and yet again
The axe is whetted and the brand made hot,
And the dull ears of sloth and greed hear not
The curses that shall speak for unborn men.
For fruitage, harvests of the crumbling rock;
Dust for his drink, while far mirages mock
The backward dreaming of the desperate year.
—Who sees? Who heeds? Again and yet again
The axe is whetted and the brand made hot,
And the dull ears of sloth and greed hear not
The curses that shall speak for unborn men.