Sonnet

Oh! heavy on the crushed and bleeding hearts 
     Of prostrate millions, with their life-blood wet, 
     Hated Oppression's iron heel is set;
And keen and quick the thrill of anguish darts 
Through quivering bosoms, and the big tear starts, 
     Blinding and hot. Earth groans in darkness yet, 
     And still her sons bow down their necks to let 
The tyrant tramp them. To her farthest parts, 
Men call for succor on their chosen God, 
     Earless and heartless Mammon;—but in vain, 
     Firmer he binds them with his galling chain, 
And heavier falls the oppressor's iron rod 
On their bruised limbs;—while willing priests of Hell 
Fold up their lily hands, and whisper ‘it is well.’