And he heard a voice in agony say—
A voice departing from its clay—
‘It shall follow thy house—it shall blast thy pride—
It shall be as a thorn in thine aching side—
Yea, learn, unpitying child of sin,
Not always lucky are those who win;
For they who would thrive with unthrifty clod,
Who would reap where fortune’s wheel hath trod,
Are the foes of man and the cursed of God!’
The blood which has ceased in the veins to run