A Cry of the Unemployed

'Tis hard to be a wanderer through this bright
world of ours,
Beneath a sky of smiling blue, on fragrant paths
of flowers,
With music in the woods, as there were nought
but pleasure known,
Or Angels walked Earth's solitudes, and yet with
want to groan:
To see no beauty in the stars, nor in Earth's wel-
come smile,
To wander cursed with misery! willing, but cannot
toil.
With burning sickness at my heart, I sink down
famished:
God of the Wretched, hear my prayer: I would
that I were dead!

Heaven droppeth down with manna still in many
a golden shower,
And feeds the leaves with fragrant breath, with
silver dew the flower.
Honey and fruit for Bee and Bird, with bloom
laughs out the tree,
And food for all God's happy things; but none
gives food to me.

Earth, wearing plenty for a crown, smiles on my
aching eye,
The purse-proud, — swathed in luxury, — disdainful
pass me by:
I've willing hands, an eager heart — but may not
work for bread!
God of the Wretched, hear my prayer: I would
that I were dead!

Gold, art thou not a blessed thing, a charm above
all other,
To shut up hearts to Nature's cry, when brother
pleads with brother?
Hast thou a music sweeter than the voice of
No! curse thee, thou'rt a mist 'twixt God and men
in outer blindness.
" Father, come back! " my Children cry; their
voices, once so sweet,
Now pierce and quiver in my heart! I cannot,
dare not meet
The looks that make the brain go mad, for dear
ones asking bread —
God of the Wretched, hear my prayer: I would
that I were dead!

Lord! what right have the poor to wed! Love's
for the gilded great:
Are they not formed of nobler clay, who dine off
golden plate!
'Tis the worst curse of Poverty to have a feeling
heart:
Why can I not, with iron grasp, choke out the
tender part?

I cannot slave in yon Bastille! I think 'twere bitterer
pain,
To wear the Pauper's iron within, than drag the
Convict's chain.
I'd work but cannot, starve I may, but will not
beg for bread:
God of the Wretched, hear my prayer: I would
that I were dead!