Classic Poem

I would ye were not, from your fathers' soil,
Track'd like the dun wolf, ever in your breast
The coal of vengeance and the curse of toil;
I would we had not to your mad lip prest
The fiery poison-cup, nor on ye turn'd
The blood-tooth'd ban-dog, foaming, as he burn'd
To tear your flesh; but thrown in kindness blest
The brother's arm around ye, as ye trod,
And led ye, sad of heart, to the meek Lamb of God.