Wo-worth those children, hard bested They worked the livelong day; Nor was there one, save Marien, A soothing word to say:-- So, amid toil and pain of heart, The long months wore away. The long, the weary months passed on, And the hard kinsman, told Over his profits; every loom Increased the hoard of gold; “Tis well!” said he, “let more be spun That more may yet be sold!” So passed the time; and with the toil Of children weak and poor, The sordid kinsman’s treasure-hoards Increased more and more. But ere a year was come and gone, The spirit of the boy Was changed; with natures fierce and rude He found his chiefest joy. The hardness of the kinsman’s soul Wrought on him like a spell, Exciting in his outraged heart, Revenge and hatred fell; The will impatient to control; The spirit to rebel. Hence was there warfare ’twixt the two, The weak against the strong;-- A hopeless, miserable strife That could not last for long; How can the young, the poor, contend Against the rich man’s wrong! The tender trouble of his eye, Was gone; his brow was cold; His speech, like that of desperate men, Was reckless, fierce, and bold. No more he kissed his sister’s cheek; Nor soothed her as she wept; No more he said at Marien’s knee His prayers before he slept. But they, the solitary pair, Like pitying angels poured Tears for the sinner; and with groans His evil life deplored. Man knew not of that secret grief, Which in their bosoms lay; And for their sinful brother’s sin, Yet harder doom had they. But God, who trieth hearts; who knows The springs of human will; Who is a juster judge than man, Of mortal good and ill; He saw those poor despised ones, And willed them still to mourn: He saw the wandering prodigal, Yet bade him not return. In his good time that weak one’s woe, Would do its work of grace; And the poor prodigal, himself, Would seek the father’s face;-- Meantime man’s judgment censured them, As abject, mean, and base. The erring brother was away, And none could tell his fate; And the young sister at the loom Sate drooping, desolate. She mourned not for her parents dead, Nor for the breezy shore: And now the weary, jangling loom Distracted her no more. Like one that worketh in a dream, So worked she day by day, Intent upon the loving grief, Which on her spirit lay; And as she worked and as she grieved Her young life wore away. And they who saw her come and go, Oft said, with pitying tongue, “Alas, that labour is the doom Of aught so weak and young!”