Before the white throne, where imposture is vain, Ye lights for the soul, ye’ll be lighted again! And upward your flame there shall mount as on wings, And damn the existing false order of things!

 The Pale Operator

If but with my pen I could draw him, With terror you’d look in his face; For he, since the first day I saw him, Has sat there and sewed in his place.

Years pass in procession unending, And ever the pale one is seen, As over his work he sits bending, And fights with the soulless machine.

I feel, as I gaze at each feature, Perspiring and grimy and wan, It is not the strength of the creature,— The will only, urges him on.

And ever the sweat-drops are flowing, They fall o’er his thin cheek in streams, They water the stuff he is sewing, And soak themselves into the seams.

How long shall the wheel yet, I pray you, Be chased by the pale artisan? And what shall the ending be, say you? Resolve the dark riddle who can!

I know that it cannot be reckoned,— But one thing the future will show: When this man has vanished, a second Will sit in his place there and sew.

 The Beggar Family

Within the court, before the judge, There stand six wretched creatures, They’re lame and weary, one and all, With pinched and pallid features. The father is a broken man, The mother weak and ailing, The little children, skin and bone, With fear and hunger wailing.

Their sins are very great, and call Aloud for retribution, For their’s (maybe you guess!) the crime Of hopeless destitution. They look upon the judge’s face, They know what judges ponder, They know the punishment that waits On those that beg and wander.

For months from justice they have fled Along the streets and highways, From farm to farm, from town to town, Along the lanes and byways. They’ve slept full oftentimes in jail, They’re known in many places; Yet still they live, for all the woe That’s stamped upon their faces.

The woman’s chill with fear. The man Implores the judge: “Oh tell us, What will you? With our children small Relentlessly expel us? Oh let us be! We’ll sleep at night In corners dark; the city Has room for all! And some kind soul Will give a crust in pity.

“For wife and 

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