Frank Moore

“Farewell, we must part; we have turned from the landOf our cold-hearted brother, with tyrannous hand,Who assumed all our rights as a favor to grant,And whose smile ever covered the sting of a taunt;Who breathed on the fame he was bound to defend—Still the craftiest foe, ’neath the guise of a friend;Who believed that our bosoms would bleed at a touch,Yet could never believe he could goad them too much;Whose conscience affects to be seared with our sin,Yet is plastic to take all its benefits in;The mote in our eye so enormous has grown,That he never perceives there’s a beam in his own.”