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Poems

By W. C. Bennett: New ed
  

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MOVE ON.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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MOVE ON.

My taste, good Sirs, no loiterers please;
When such the public watchman sees,
Suspicious straight, his words are these:
Move on!
The social safety, well he knows,
Is apt to suffer most from those
Whose loiterings their designs disclose:
Move on!

340

Look, then, on all with honest fear,
Our age's words who will not hear,
Though still its cry rings loud and clear,
Move on!
Ho! priests, who think you Churchmen still
Need only weekly pulpits fill,
Nor care a whit for social ill,
Move on!
You who, for justice, give us law,
And clench a wrong with learned saw,
Of clamouring right, in reverent awe,
Move on!
You statesmen! be it understood,
You rule but for the people's good,
You who would loiter if you could,
Move on!
Ah! you who kill or cure us, learn
There may be something to discern
In newest truths that most you spurn;
Move on!
You who your souls to trade have sold,
Who only breathe to grasp and hold,
Has life no better worth than gold?
Move on!
You slaves of forms and schools of art,
Clasp naked nature to the heart,
Till from the embrace, fresh beauty start;
Move on!
What, poet, is the past to you?
There stands existence; look it through;
Give words to what men feel and do:
Move on!