Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poor were others, his was plenty,
Treasure all but generous deed;
Where, they one had, he had twenty,
Many an acre, many a steed:
Wife and children, without measure,
Gold and wine in precious bin—
Not to name forbidden pleasure,
Secret draughts of softer sin;
While the poor man, in his cottage,
Murmured simply, “Blest I am,
With my pinch of herbs and pottage,
And the little one ewe lamb.”

Flowers, from farthest clime transplanted,
Bloom'd to please his wealthy will;
Fruits, that every sense enchanted,
Left him even more hungry still;
Wearied, in his lofty station,
Of abundance too well known,
Yearn'd he for a new sensation,
For the jewel not his own;
Coveted the poor man's blessing,
As a butterfly the boy—
For a moment's mad caressing,
Craved his neighbour's lifelong joy.

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Tired, not sated with the bounty
Fortune heap'd upon his lot,
Though the lord of half a county,
Titled, yet contented not;
Hanker'd he for fruitage glowing,
Sacred, on the other side,
From his fountains overflowing—
For the single joy denied;
Lusted for that one sweet blossom,
Springing not to greet his call,
Laid in his poor brother's bosom,
Nought to him, his brother's all.

Though he royal kept his table,
Dainties ate from silver dish,
Lived the gorgeous dreams of fable,
Spoke and had direct his wish;
Though a hundred servants idled,
Each impatient whim to meet,
Not an appetite was bridled,
And the earth was at his feet;
Still among his pamper'd places,
Scorn'd he bond that holy is,
Strove for fresh illicit graces—
Gifts that never should be his.

While his neighbour night and morning,
Slaved in low and narrow sphere,
Void of comfort and adorning,
On from summer leaf to sere;
Heard the notes of rook and starling,
Changing with the changing time,
With his one delight and darling,
Who made that small home sublime;
With the one who, in each matter,
Plann'd to swell their humble store,
Shared the same crack'd cup and platter
With that one, and nothing more.

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Out of Folly that is Fashion,
In the licence made his law,
Came a blast of fiery passion,
Scattering every check like straw;
And the rich man spared his treasure,
Place, and power for weal abused,
And, to glut a passing pleasure,
Took what God and man refused;
Chose, though birth to him was lavish,
His poor brother's peace to damn—
Chose that lowly fold to ravish,
With the little one ewe lamb.