After all said,- how many more
Of shames and sorrows by the score
Escape without a touch;
After all said, how little hope
With this world's leprosy to cope
In chance of doing much!

Good statesmanship's acutest scheme,
Philosophy's most perfect dream,
Democracy's pet plan,
Philanthropy's devoted will,
Not all our zeal, nor all our skill
Can heal the wounds of Man!

With Pleasure's growth, and Wealth's increase,
The contrast, Want, shall never cease,
And Want secures the Slave;
With human nature's cruel mind
Dependent Misery to grind
What brother's hand can save?

Even our sons, the lads at school,
Delight with tyranny to rule
And delight the lower boys,-
Even our daughters, fashion's flowers,
Begrudge the early-closing hours,
And frown on Sunday joys.

There is a Brother,- only One,
Whose Spirit does what has been done,
And all in secret heals;
Who wipes away the mourner's tear,
And whispers patience in his ear,
And comfort - when he kneels!

He, only He, can change outright
This wretched state of sin and night
For righteousness and day;
And when He cometh,- (when He will!)
Shall scatter every cloud of ill,
And drive all shames away!

Meanwhile, it is for you, O Man,
To imitate as best you can
That universal Friend,
To right the Right, and fight the Wrong,
Assured it cannot now be long
All Thraldom has an end!