And the rude oath and heartless jeer
Fall ever on his loathing ear,
And, or in wakefulness or sleep
Nerve, flesh, and fibre thrill and creep,
Whene’er that ruffian’s tossing limb,
Crimson’d with murder, touches him!
What has the gray-hair’d prisoner done?
Has murder stain’d his hands with gore?
Not so: his crime’s a fouler one:
God made the old man poor!