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My Sonnets

[by W. C. Bennett]

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['Tis false, God made not man for toil alone]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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42

['Tis false, God made not man for toil alone]

'Tis false, God made not man for toil alone,
To labour on, from the first break of dawn,
Till dewy eve come down. Well might he mourn
His weary lot, were such his fate. O own,
If through life, thus, he were foredoomed to groan,
Ye who, content with happiness, dare say
Content should dwell with all, that well might they
Whom misery calls her own, almost, atone,
By such a life, for curses, if they raised
Their toiling hands against the heavens in hate,
And hurled up to the God they should have praised,
In words, whirled on to madness by their fate,
Wild imprecations through the trembling sky.
They blaspheme God—Man should not toil and die.
November 20th, 1842.