Ye who, passing graves by night,
Glance not to the left or right,
Lest a spirit should arise,
Cold and white, to freeze your eyes,
Some weak phantom, which your doubt
Shapes upon the dark without
From the dark within, a guess
At the spirit’s deathlessness,
Which ye entertain with fear
In your self-built dungeon here, 10
Where ye sell your God-given lives
Just for gold to buy you gyves,—­
Ye without a shudder meet
In the city’s noonday street,
Spirits sadder and more dread
Than from out the clay have fled,
Buried, beyond hope of light,
In the body’s haunted night! 
See ye not that woman pale? 
There are bloodhounds on her trail! 20
Bloodhounds two, all gaunt and lean,
(For the soul their scent is keen,)
Want and Sin, and Sin is last. 
They have followed far and fast;
Want gave tongue, and, at her howl,
Sin awakened with a growl. 
Ah, poor girl! she had a right
To a blessing from the light;
Title-deeds to sky and earth
God gave to her at her birth; 30
But, before they were enjoyed,
Poverty had made them void,
And had drunk the sunshine up
From all nature’s ample cup,
Leaving her a first-born’s share
In the dregs of darkness there. 
Often, on the sidewalk bleak,
Hungry, all alone, and weak,
She has seen, in night and storm,
Rooms o’erflow with firelight warm, 40
Which, outside the window-glass,
Doubled all the cold, alas! 
Till each ray that on her fell
Stabbed her like an icicle,
And she almost loved the wail
Of the bloodhounds on her trail. 
Till the floor becomes her bier,
She shall feel their pantings near,
Close upon her very heels,
Spite of all the din of wheels; 50
Shivering on her pallet poor,
She shall hear them at the door
Whine and scratch to be let in,
Sister bloodhounds, Want and Sin!

Hark! that rustle of a dress,
Stiff with lavish costliness! 
Here comes one whose cheek would flush
But to have her garment brush
’Gainst the girl whose fingers thin
Wove the weary broidery in, 60
Bending backward from her toil,
Lest her tears the silk might soil,
And, in midnights chill and murk,
Stitched her life into the work,
Shaping from her bitter thought
Heart’s-ease and forget-me-not,
Satirizing her despair
With the emblems woven there. 
Little doth the wearer heed
Of the heart-break in the brede; 70
A hyena by her side
Skulks, down-looking,—­it is Pride. 
He digs for her in the earth,
Where lie all her claims of birth,
With his foul paws rooting o’er
Some long-buried ancestor,
Who perhaps a statue won
By the ill deeds he had done,
By the innocent blood he shed,
By the desolation spread 80
Over happy villages,
Blotting out the smile of peace. 
There walks Judas, he who sold