Moses

Within those darkened huts my mother plies her tasks, My father bends to unrequited toil; And bitter tears moisten the bread my brethren eat. And when I gaze upon their cruel wrongs The very purple on my limbs seems drenched With blood, the warm blood of my own kindred race; And then thy richest viands pall upon my taste, And discord jars in every tone of song. I cannot live in pleasure while they faint In pain.