Poems (Van Rensselaer)/The Children's Heritage
THE CHILDREN'S HERITAGE
The old Earth pardons much, but overpass The mark her bounty sets and merciless Her punishments. No patient waters blessTheir parching intervales, no deep pools glassTheir naked flanks, where her sad mountains stand That once were thick with greenness—ravished, rent, Mothers to-day of torrents fiercely spentTo 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 mockThe 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 notThe curses that shall speak for unborn men.