Thus, from this strange excess of wrong
Her tender heart has caught
The noblest truth, the sweetest song,
The Saviour taught.
So, more than measured homily,
Of sage, or priest, or preacher,
Is this wild tale of cruelty
Love's gentle teacher.
It tells of sin, its deep remorse,
Its fitting recompense,
And vindicates the tardy course
Of Providence.
These boyish bosoms are on fire
With chivalric possession,
And burn with just and manly ire
Against oppression.
The glory and the grace of life,
And Love's surpassing sweetness,
Rise from the monster to the wife
In high completeness;
And thence look down with mercy's eye
On sin's accurst abuses,
And seek to wrest from charity
Some fair excuses.
Ruth.
These greedy mouths are watering
For the fruit within the basket;
And, although they will not ask it,
Their jack-knives all are burning
And their eager hands are yearning
For the peeling and the quartering.
So let us have done with our talk;
For they are too tired to say their prayers,
And the time is come they should walk
From the story below to the story upstairs.
THE THIRD MOVEMENT.
LOCALITY.—The Kitchen.