I die， I die！' the Mother said，

    `My children die for lack of bread.

    What more has the merciless tyrant¹ said？'

    The Monk² sat down on the stony³ bed.

    The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side，

    His hands and feet were wounded wide，

    His body bent⁴， his arms and knees

    Like to the roots of ancient trees.

    His eye was dry； no tear could flow：

    A hollow groan⁵ first spoke⁶ his woe⁷.

    He trembled and shudder'd upon the bed；

    At length with a feeble cry he said：

    `When God commanded this hand to write

    In the studious hours of deep midnight，

    He told me the writing I wrote should prove

    The bane of all that on Earth I love.

    `My brother starv'd between two walls，

    His children's cry my soul appalls⁸；

    I mock'd at the wrack⁹ and griding chain，

    My bent body mocks their torturing pain.

    `Thy father drew his sword in the North，

    With his thousands strong he marchèd forth¹⁰；

    Thy brother has arm'd himself in steel，

    To avenge¹¹ the wrongs thy children feel.

    `But vain the sword and vain the bow，

    They never can work War's overthrow¹².

    The hermit's prayer and the widow's tear

    Alone can free the world from fear.

    `For a tear is an intellectual thing，

    And a sigh is the sword of an Angel King，

    And the bitter groan of the martyr's woe

    Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow.

    `The hand of Vengeance¹³ found the bed

    To which the purple tyrant fled；

    The iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head，

    And became a tyrant in his stead.'

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