The Avenger

A strong man wronged may win redress, 
     Though trusting but his own right arm;
A rich man robbed has law and press
     To ring the signal of alarm, 
And, right or wrong, the barking throng 
     Hunt down the wretch who did him harm.

But only with a stifled cry,
     Perhaps a look of wan despair, 
The torn heart speaking in the eye, 
     Set hopeless on the hollow air;
The plundered poor their wrongs endure,
     Devoured by fangs that never spare.

Pale orphans by that living death, 
     The drunkard reeks in; widowed wives,
Whose lords yet breathe a charnel's breath, 
     And cling to curse their wasted lives;
With dumb appeal move not the heel 
     That grinds them, while the robber thrives.

But somewhere in the silent sky, 
     Or budding in the silent sod,
Wrath broods her thunders ere they fly, 
     Pale Justice feeds her toughening rod;
When wealth and power have had their hour, 
     Comes for the weak the hour of God.

Then mightier than the strong man's steel 
     Or rich man's gold, the widow's moan 
And plundered orphan's mute appeal 
     Go dauntless to the Almighty throne;
With fiery whip His thunders slip, 
     And teach the spoiler groan for groan.

Dim shadows haunt the nuptial bower
     He decked from desolated homes;
Blood-streaks are on each crimson flower, 
     And famine's ghastly pallor comes 
From lily and rose, to blast repose, 
     Where'er the weary waster roams.

His son goes reeling to the same
     Black grave his victim's corse pollutes;
His daughters drain the cup of shame, 
     And revel with congenial brutes;
Then mania's hell avenges well
     On him his culture's evil fruits.