Sonnets

                                   I.
When man's sick heart ls bruised and scarred and torn
     Till it can bleed no longer, and its hope—
Life's lamp — is quenched, and the soul, doomed to grope 
In utter darkness, wanders on forlorn,
Bowed with the thought of all that it hath borne, 
     Bears, and must bear, till Death’s dim chambers ope 
     Their rocky portals to receive his clay;
Who quenched that soul's best flame, and spoiled that heart
     Let him beware! The lioness may play 
     With her soft cubs till they aro torn away:
But then comes vengeance, and her red eyes dart 
Hot fames which wither, while her bloody fangs
     Make the poor robber-wretch an easy prey, 
And tear his quivering heart, regardless of his pangs.

                                   II.
Is man, imbruted, tenderer than the brute?
     Can the soul, darkened, bring forth deeds of light?
     Will wrong, long suffered, teach to do the right?
Or they who plant and nurse the bitter root
Think not therefrom to reap the bitterer fruit?
     Who breaks the lamp, himself shall walk in night.:
Who mars the soul, his soul is marred the worse;
     Who spoileth man, by man shall he be spoiled;
And not in vain, the trodden-down shall nurse, 
In his dark soul, the long-abiding curse—
     God's dread Avenger — and, though often foiled,
Wasting and triumph shall attend his path, 
     Till the proud lordling, by a sad reverse,
Shall fall a shrieking prey to his crushed victim's wrath.

                                   III.
What though the bond man bows him to the sod, 
     And his soul burns in secret day by day,
As he toils onward! — yet shall not delay 
The unlagging heralds of the wrath of God—
Judgment and retribution and the rod 
     Of sin-avenging Justice. Nor shall they 
     Who sow the east wind, sow it not to reap 
Their fierce requital in the whirlwind's breath.
     Vengeance may tarry, but shall never sleep;
     And, though the heart, whose pulses now may leap 
With its fell fire, bows to all-conquering Death, 
     God will record its dying curse, and pour 
     The wrath-red storm, whose thunder-bolts shall sweep 
Down to the dust, the strength of the proud evil-doer.