 | My Sonnets |  |
43
[Content!—O hate it, for it is a thing]
Content!—O hate it, for it is a thingThe happy praise to make the wretched be
In love with hunger and with misery;
To make the many, to whom their days bring
But toil, unceasing toil, unmurmuring, cling
To their most bitter fate, and strive to see
The will of the benignant Deity
In their dark lot. Content!—The word might sting
The toiling millions in their strength to rise,
Nor longer crouch beneath the evil rule
Of those who cramp their mighty energies.
O man, be not a mere, unreasoning, tool
To labour on till death! God never meant
You thus should live! They sin who are content!
November 24th, 1842.
| My Sonnets | |