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!"
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part Ii. - Iv - Deplorable His Lot Who Tills The Ground
William Wordsworth
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Poem topics: god, heaven, life, nature, tree, voice, soul, mercy, earth, claim, long, service, relax, iron, master, high, live, bound, sound, stone, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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