THE WAGES

EARTH loves to gibber o'er her dross,

Her golden souls, to waste;

The cup she fills for her god-men

Is a bitter cup to taste.

Who sees the gyves that bind mankind

And strives to strike them off

Shall gain the hissing hate of fools,

Thorns, and the ingrate's scoff.

Who storms the moss-grown walls of eld

And beats some falsehood down

Shall pass the pallid gates of death

Sans laurel, love or crown;

For him who fain would teach the world

The world holds hate in fee —

For Socrates, the hemlock cup;

For Christ, Gethsemane.