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THERE is a demon who's named Unrest;

He tortures and tears the human breast;

He hates the shackles of human law,

And glories in kindling strife and war.

He raises doubt, distrust, and hate;

He taunts with fears of impending tale;

He quenches love with a jealous dart,

And he revels in pains of a human heart.

He says that enough is a word unknown,

That we never harvest the seed we've sown,

That the joy of to-day is to-morrow's curse;

And the wound he touches grows always worse.

He sends his spies to each little nook,

And they crush out peace with a single look;

They toss their brands in each peaceful home,

And force the houseless dwellers to roam.

But the Saviour once, with a bitter tear,

Condemned him in human shape to appear;

And I know that the tale I tell is true,

For they christened him the Wandering Jew.


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