The droning wheel! Think of a mother’s pain
And torment, as she weeps and seeks in vain,
Holding her fair dead child in blind distress,
To warm its cold heart back to life again.
O, to the poor all things are bitterness.
ENVOI.
Mercy for these thine own, oh Prince, I cry!
Peace to thy vassal ’neath his darkened sky,
Peace to the pale nun, praying passionless,
And to all such as lowly live and die—