Are following their dead comrade to the grave, Ere the night fall, will in their revelry
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew
No resting place, no dear delights of home,
Belike who never saw his children's face,
Whose children knew no father; he is gone,
Dropt from existence, like the withered leaf
That from the summer tree is swept away,
Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death
Who bore him, and already for her son
Her tears of bitterness are shed: when first
He had put on the livery of blood,
She wept him dead to her.
Clay in the potter's hand! one favour'd mind
Scarce lower than the Angels, shall explore
The ways of Nature, whilst his fellow-man
Fram'd with like miracle the work of God,
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on
A life of labour; like this soldier here,
His wonderous faculties bestow'd in vain,
Be moulded by his fate till he becomes
A mere machine of murder.
Who say that this is well! as God has made
All things for man's good pleasure, so of men
The many for the few! court-moralists,
Reverend lip-comforters that once a week
Proclaim how blessed are the poor, for they
Shall have their wealth hereafter, and tho' now
Toiling and troubled, tho' they pick the crumbs
That from the rich man's table fall, at length
In Abraham's bosom rest with Lazarus.
Themselves meantime secure their good things here
And feast with Dives. These are they O Lord!
Who in thy plain and simple gospel see
All mysteries, but who find no peace enjoined,
No brotherhood, no wrath denounced on them
Who shed their brethren's blood, . . blind at noon day
As owls, lynx-eyed in darkness!
O my God!
I thank thee, with no Pharisaic pride
I thank thee that I am not such as these,
I thank thee for the eye that sees, the heart
That feels, the voice that in these evil days
Amid these evil tongues, exalts itself
And cries aloud against iniquity.
Spider! thou need'st not run in fear about
To shun my curious eyes ;
I won't humanely crush thy bowels out
Lest thou should'st eat the flies ;
Nor will I roast thee with a damn'd delight
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see,
For there is one who might
Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore-perplext,
The subject of his verse:
There's many a one who on a better text
Perhaps might comment worse.
Then shrink not, old Free-Mason, from my view,
But quietly like me spin out the line;
Do thou thy work pursue
As I will mine.
Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways
Of Satan, Sire of lies;
Hell's huge black Spider for mankind he lays
His toils as thou for flies.
When Betty's busy eye runs round the room
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen!
But where is he whose broom
The earth shall clean?
Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were thought,
And 'twas a likeness true,
To emblem laws in which the weak are caught
But which the strong break through.
And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en,
Like some poor client is that wretched fly;
I'll warrant thee thou'lt drain
And is not thy weak work like human schemes
And care on earth employ'd?
Such are young hopes and Love's delightful dreams
So easily destroyed!
So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers sleep, Self-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay,
Soon shall Destruction sweep
His work away.
Thou busy labourer! one resemblance more
Shall yet the verse prolong,
For Spider, thou art like the Poet poor,
Whom thou hast help'd in song.
Both busily our needful food to win,
We work, as Nature taught, with ceaseless pains,
Thy bowels thou dost spin,
I spin my brains.
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