The bread procured by slavery’s groans
From tortured flesh and aching bones,
To him were bitter as the fruit
Whose tree in hell sends deep its root;
The usurer’s ill-got gains he spurns;
No widow through his grasping mourns;
For him no serfs turn up the soil,
No minions delve, no drudges toil;
But his own hands his wants supply,
God’s fount allays his thirst when dry;