 | The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell |  |
80
THE CRY OF THE WRONGED.
[_]
The allusion, in the fourth stanza, to the startling emptiness of the hovel from which one of those poor people, who are just suffered to live in this world, has gone to another, will be recognized in full force by any one who has, even once in his life, looked in upon such a sight. I have seen, on untwisting the string from the nail and pushing open the crazy door, literally almost no relics but the handful of ashes upon the hearth, and the little heap of dust, laid out upon the bench, waiting to be given back to the earth from which it was taken. God help our poor brethren!
Brother, I am only dust:
Wherefore wilt thou be unjust?
Wherefore shake my humble trust
In our God, my brother?
There is yet but little day
That together we shall stay:
Wherefore jostle me away?
Love we one another.
Wherefore wilt thou be unjust?
Wherefore shake my humble trust
In our God, my brother?
There is yet but little day
That together we shall stay:
Wherefore jostle me away?
Love we one another.
81
I have but this little spot:
From my poor need snatch it not:
It is all that I have got
Of this hard world's giving.
Is there not a room for me,
Among all God made to be,
Where to gather, manfully,
Yet with toil my living?
From my poor need snatch it not:
It is all that I have got
Of this hard world's giving.
Is there not a room for me,
Among all God made to be,
Where to gather, manfully,
Yet with toil my living?
God has given light and air:
Grudge not thou my little share;
Lo! it cometh everywhere,
We may share together.
God, Himself, has set me here,
And, with many a bitter tear,
I have struggled many a year
Of rough and wintry weather.
Grudge not thou my little share;
Lo! it cometh everywhere,
We may share together.
God, Himself, has set me here,
And, with many a bitter tear,
I have struggled many a year
Of rough and wintry weather.
Let me work,—I ask no more,—
Till my stint is labored o'er.
I can never lay up store;
None this world will send me.
When I go, if men look there,
They will find my place all bare;
Nothing but the light and air,
God was good to lend me.
Till my stint is labored o'er.
I can never lay up store;
None this world will send me.
When I go, if men look there,
They will find my place all bare;
Nothing but the light and air,
God was good to lend me.
82
Brother, look at me again:
Toil has given me many a stain,
Toil has swollen every vein,
Yet I am thy brother.
I am man, as well as thou,
And our Lord has crossed my brow,
Calling me God's child, and how
Wilt thou call me other?
Toil has given me many a stain,
Toil has swollen every vein,
Yet I am thy brother.
I am man, as well as thou,
And our Lord has crossed my brow,
Calling me God's child, and how
Wilt thou call me other?
Let me stay until He call:
Let me stay till evening fall,
If so long I must be thrall,
Earth's hard labor plying.
When thou comest to take share
In my cold bed, thou wilt there
Grant my claim, and little care
Near the poor man lying.
Let me stay till evening fall,
If so long I must be thrall,
Earth's hard labor plying.
When thou comest to take share
In my cold bed, thou wilt there
Grant my claim, and little care
Near the poor man lying.
December, 1846.
| The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell | |