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The
Clod and the Pebble
Love
seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives it ease,
And builds a heaven in hell's despair.
So
sung a little clod of clay,
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:
Love
seeketh only Self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a hell in heaven's despite.
Is
this a holy thing to see
In a rich and fruitful land,--
Babes reduced to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is
that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And
their sun does never shine,
And their fields are bleak and bare,
And their ways are filled with thorns,
It is eternal winter there.
For
where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall,
Babes can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appal.
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