And, maddened by that fierce cry, he rusheth as a thief upon the world;
The world that hath left him to starve, itself wallowing in plenty,—
The world, that denieth him his rights,—he daringly robbeth it of them.
I say not, such an one is innocent; but, small is the measure of his guilt
To that of his wealthy neighbour, who would not help him at his need;
To that of the selfish epicure, who turned away with coldness from his tale;
To that of unsuffering thousands, who look with complacence on his fall.
Or perchance the continual dropping of the venomed words of spite,
Insult and injury and scorn, have galled and pierced his heart;
Yet, with all long-suffering and meekness, he forgiveth unto seventy times seven: