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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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