...nd of strife, How like a fiend may man be made, Plying the foul and monstrous trade Whose harvest-field is human life, Whose sickle is the reeking sword! Quenching, with reckless hand in bloods Sparks kindled by the breath of God; Urging the deathless soul, unshriven, Of open guilt or secret sin, Before the bar of that pure Heaven The holy only enter in! Oh, by the widow's sore distress, The...