 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
MAMMON.
There's blood upon thee, thou accursed Gold!And yet thou goest free, and current art,
As thou in all these social ills no part
Hadst ever taken; as thou hadst not sold
And bought up slaves, nor given Greed firm hold
Of his poor victim: nor plucked out the heart
Of true love, sold like vile wares i' the mart,
Nor murdered, with pains slow and manifold,
Thine o'erworked thralls! get hence, thou hypocrite,
That look'st so open-faced, so pure, and bright:
Thou legal coin of the realm, that yet dost break
The law which makes thee current: for whose sake
Men sell their fellows, body and soul, outright,
And flesh and blood by the pound, like Shylock, take
| The Poetry of Real Life | |