PHILLIPS! the suff'rer less by law than pow'r, Though prison'd in an adamantine hold, May bear a heart as free and uncontroul'd In his dark cell, as in a summer's bow'r. The sly accuser—He, who in an hour When all suspicion slept, like Him of old Eve's Tempter, wreath'd in many an artful fold Conceal'd his drift with purpose to devour— He is the pris'ner, and those ribs within That hoop his sorry vitals round about Dwells one, who never shall compassion win Feel what he may, 'till Judgment call him out. Thou then less deeply at thy wrongs repine, Scorn is his meed, commiseration thine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A BIRTHDAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITIES by THOMAS HARDY THE CAPTAINS OF THE YEARS by ARTHUR RAYMOND MACDOUGALL JR. RELIGIOUS ISOLATION, TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND by MATTHEW ARNOLD |