The pitiful brand of a pitiless past.
Long-wrought, closely knit, subtly swaying, deep-rooted,
The system whose shadow is over the child;
By grey superstition debased and imbruted,
By craft's callous cruelty deeply defiled.
But long-swaying custom hath far-reaching issues,
The hand that assails it doth ill to show haste.
The knife that would search poor humanity's tissues,
Hath healing for object, not ravage or waste.
Not coldness, but coolness, sound policy pleads for,