Lies like black night on the halls of the fated:
And the recreant son plunges guiltily on
To perfect the guilt of his sires.
ANTISTROPHE IV.
But Justice shines in a lowly cell;
In the homes of poverty, smoke-begrimed,
With the sober-minded she loves to dwell.
But she turns aside
From the rich man’s house with averted eye,
The golden-fretted halls of pride