Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - IV - Deplorable His Lot Who Tills The Ground

Deplorable his lot who tills the ground, His whole life long tills it, with heartless toil Of villain-service, passing with the soil To each new Master, like a steer or hound, Or like a rooted tree, or stone earth-bound; But mark how gladly, through their own domains, The Monks relax or break these iron chains; While Mercy, uttering, through their voice, a sound Echoed in Heaven, cries out, "Ye Chiefs, abate These legalized oppressions! Man whose name And nature God disdained not; Man whose soul Christ died for, cannot forfeit his high claim To live and move exempt from all control Which fellow-feeling doth not mitigate!"