 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
RED REVOLUTION.
Its home is in the haunted air,
It rides the gathering gloom,
Its breath is on the palace stair
And darkens prince's room;
It knocks at every golden door,
That duty has defied,
But brings a blessing to the poor,
By justice long denied;
It sits in rulers' crumbling seat,
And guides the statesman's choice,
Strong as the flowing ocean's beat,—
Red revolution's voice.
It rides the gathering gloom,
Its breath is on the palace stair
And darkens prince's room;
It knocks at every golden door,
That duty has defied,
But brings a blessing to the poor,
By justice long denied;
It sits in rulers' crumbling seat,
And guides the statesman's choice,
Strong as the flowing ocean's beat,—
Red revolution's voice.
Its spirit speaks, in angry gusts
Shaking the tyrant's art,
Or fossil form that eats and rusts
Into a nation's heart;
It springs from cellars at our feet,
With sudden bitter cries
Of women, once as soft and sweet
As clouds in summer skies;
It stirs, in starvelings cooped and jammed
Behind the mouldering wall
Of institutions dead and damned—
Red revolution's call.
Shaking the tyrant's art,
Or fossil form that eats and rusts
Into a nation's heart;
It springs from cellars at our feet,
With sudden bitter cries
Of women, once as soft and sweet
As clouds in summer skies;
It stirs, in starvelings cooped and jammed
Behind the mouldering wall
Of institutions dead and damned—
Red revolution's call.
In murmurs—in the swarthy mine,
And out of sweating mill,
From throats of Christians kept as swine,
Their masters yet to kill;
In workshops foul, where drudge the slaves
Of systems false their hour,
And drop in early unknown graves,
To gild a lady's bower;
In courts and alleys grim, that pen
The masses drink doth maim,
That still beneath the beast are men—
Red revolution's claim.
And out of sweating mill,
From throats of Christians kept as swine,
Their masters yet to kill;
400
Of systems false their hour,
And drop in early unknown graves,
To gild a lady's bower;
In courts and alleys grim, that pen
The masses drink doth maim,
That still beneath the beast are men—
Red revolution's claim.
It scowls—through every stubborn Strike,
That worlds together draws,
And proves the high and low alike
Are led by common laws;
In writhings, to be free from loads
That feudal fetters bring,
Till the pale toiler make new roads,
And of himself be king;
In fiery bursts of broken speech,
The poet's lurid line,
That unto Heaven for mercy reach—
Red revolution's sign.
That worlds together draws,
And proves the high and low alike
Are led by common laws;
In writhings, to be free from loads
That feudal fetters bring,
Till the pale toiler make new roads,
And of himself be king;
In fiery bursts of broken speech,
The poet's lurid line,
That unto Heaven for mercy reach—
Red revolution's sign.
It mutters—where the servants feel
Their labour is for nought,
And, ground below the rich man's heel,
Know justice must be bought;
Where sad they see the ancient right,
And public pastures, rent
Away from them by bloated might,
Themselves so impotent;
Where sop of suffrage given in name,
A jest and mockery still,
Is yet the landlord's to his shame—
Red revolution's will.
Their labour is for nought,
And, ground below the rich man's heel,
Know justice must be bought;
Where sad they see the ancient right,
And public pastures, rent
Away from them by bloated might,
Themselves so impotent;
Where sop of suffrage given in name,
A jest and mockery still,
Is yet the landlord's to his shame—
Red revolution's will.
It sounds—when sots, called noble, sink
Down to the dirty clay
From which they basely rose, to stink
And strut their little day;
Where houses, that by crime were raised,
Adorned by pelf and all
For which the glorious thief is praised,
Are tottering to their fall;
In desperate blows, to ease the gripe
Of each blood-sucking tax,
And break the scourge's iron stripe—
Red revolution's axe.
Down to the dirty clay
From which they basely rose, to stink
And strut their little day;
Where houses, that by crime were raised,
Adorned by pelf and all
For which the glorious thief is praised,
Are tottering to their fall;
In desperate blows, to ease the gripe
Of each blood-sucking tax,
And break the scourge's iron stripe—
Red revolution's axe.
It creeps—from darkness wrought by dearth,
To burst in lightning soon,
As falls the shadow of the earth
Upon the anguished moon;
On brows that want has sorely blanched,
On burning bloodless lips
Whose tale of wounds by wealth unstanched
Sows horror of eclipse;
On wasted arms, that fain would toil,
And nothing find but doom
From those who made them merry spoil—
Red revolution's gloom.
To burst in lightning soon,
As falls the shadow of the earth
Upon the anguished moon;
401
On burning bloodless lips
Whose tale of wounds by wealth unstanched
Sows horror of eclipse;
On wasted arms, that fain would toil,
And nothing find but doom
From those who made them merry spoil—
Red revolution's gloom.
It hangs—a thunder cloud in air,
O'er faithless fool and lord,
As hung, suspended by a hair,
The legendary sword;
Athwart the tower of trembling state,
Athwart the church and spire,
That ripen for the one black fate,
From the one black desire;
Above the hoardings of the bank,
The plunder of the purse
That lives of men by thousands drank—
Red revolution's curse.
O'er faithless fool and lord,
As hung, suspended by a hair,
The legendary sword;
Athwart the tower of trembling state,
Athwart the church and spire,
That ripen for the one black fate,
From the one black desire;
Above the hoardings of the bank,
The plunder of the purse
That lives of men by thousands drank—
Red revolution's curse.
It rumbles—like the earthquake's throe,
Dissolving sacred bound,
That gulfs alike the friend and foe,
In one gray burial ground.
Through hoary structures, that have stood
For ages long, and laws
Abused and spent, and only good
To toss in Tophet's jaws;
Though sugar-plums and maxims mock
The eyes with watching wet,
And cobweb franchise veils the rock—
Red revolution's threat.
Dissolving sacred bound,
That gulfs alike the friend and foe,
In one gray burial ground.
Through hoary structures, that have stood
For ages long, and laws
Abused and spent, and only good
To toss in Tophet's jaws;
Though sugar-plums and maxims mock
The eyes with watching wet,
And cobweb franchise veils the rock—
Red revolution's threat.
It rolls—while parties rise, and fall
Under its greedy tide,
And round it whining placemen crawl—
Or craven helmsmen hide;
While hobbies of the class-made code,
All foul with falsehood's brand,
Pass with the knaves that them bestrode,
As wrinkles on the sand;
While hate treads on the broidered hem,
Fear opes its ocean grave,
Which mops of measures idly stem—
Red revolution's wave.
Under its greedy tide,
And round it whining placemen crawl—
Or craven helmsmen hide;
While hobbies of the class-made code,
All foul with falsehood's brand,
Pass with the knaves that them bestrode,
As wrinkles on the sand;
While hate treads on the broidered hem,
Fear opes its ocean grave,
Which mops of measures idly stem—
Red revolution's wave.
It rings—below the widow's sigh,
That meets the master scoff,
And brings eternity so nigh,
But earth sends farther off;
Above the partial judge's word,
That gives with venal sway,
The pauper but the hangman's cord,
The rich his wicked way;
Around the triumph that is short,
The peer can cheaply buy,
Who curses God and sips his port—
Red revolution's cry.
That meets the master scoff,
And brings eternity so nigh,
But earth sends farther off;
402
That gives with venal sway,
The pauper but the hangman's cord,
The rich his wicked way;
Around the triumph that is short,
The peer can cheaply buy,
Who curses God and sips his port—
Red revolution's cry.
It treads—with muffled steps, that pace
Down the complaining years,
That, flashing joy on withered face,
To smiles turn orphan tears;
With conquering feet, that broken chains
Leave wheresoe'er they fall,
And robbers stript of lawless gains
Below their levelled wall;
Till drops the writer's perjured pen,
Prompt with its poison stamp,
As at the march of armèd men—
Red revolution's tramp.
Down the complaining years,
That, flashing joy on withered face,
To smiles turn orphan tears;
With conquering feet, that broken chains
Leave wheresoe'er they fall,
And robbers stript of lawless gains
Below their levelled wall;
Till drops the writer's perjured pen,
Prompt with its poison stamp,
As at the march of armèd men—
Red revolution's tramp.
It waves—in sanguinary dawn,
When wretches dare to be
Themselves, and though their rulers fawn,
Yet purpose to be free;
In ruddy rose of maiden's cheek,
Who, smarting at her shame,
Would from the dastard spoiler seek,
Through fire, a surer name;
In dazzling dreams, that fool and fold
The Judas with his bag,
The mumbling priest in mask of gold—
Red revolution's flag.
When wretches dare to be
Themselves, and though their rulers fawn,
Yet purpose to be free;
In ruddy rose of maiden's cheek,
Who, smarting at her shame,
Would from the dastard spoiler seek,
Through fire, a surer name;
In dazzling dreams, that fool and fold
The Judas with his bag,
The mumbling priest in mask of gold—
Red revolution's flag.
It points—beyond false verdict's rod,
And sermon's o'erpaid fume,
Unto the Vengeance that is God,
Who doth His trust resume;
Unto the sceptred wrath, that rides
Far on the tempest's wing,
And in eternity abides,
Till every clown is king;
To fuel heaped, for centuried sin
Against a bleeding land,
The hell beneath the lava skin—
Red revolution's hand.
And sermon's o'erpaid fume,
Unto the Vengeance that is God,
Who doth His trust resume;
Unto the sceptred wrath, that rides
Far on the tempest's wing,
And in eternity abides,
Till every clown is king;
To fuel heaped, for centuried sin
Against a bleeding land,
The hell beneath the lava skin—
Red revolution's hand.
It whispers—in the solemn hush,
Before the purging storm
Awakes, and with its righteous rush
Sweeps off each useless form;
In secret tones of quiet songs,
That sharpen needs and knives,
Each on the whetstone of its wrongs,
Till the dread hour arrives;
In the mute grievance of the child,
Who plies the beggar's broom,
Petted, and dropped when once defil'd—
Red revolution's doom.
Before the purging storm
Awakes, and with its righteous rush
Sweeps off each useless form;
403
That sharpen needs and knives,
Each on the whetstone of its wrongs,
Till the dread hour arrives;
In the mute grievance of the child,
Who plies the beggar's broom,
Petted, and dropped when once defil'd—
Red revolution's doom.
It warns—in cruel clash of steel,
The oath and dying sob,
When drilled battalions bend, and reel
Before the untaught mob;
When hand to hand, till chaos end
The strife that devils rouse,
With shot and cheer and thrust, contend
Red coat and ragged blouse;
When soldier and civilian meet,
And women even turn out
To barricade in bloody street—
Red revolution's shout.
The oath and dying sob,
When drilled battalions bend, and reel
Before the untaught mob;
When hand to hand, till chaos end
The strife that devils rouse,
With shot and cheer and thrust, contend
Red coat and ragged blouse;
When soldier and civilian meet,
And women even turn out
To barricade in bloody street—
Red revolution's shout.
It speaks—with mighty thoughts, that knit
Mortals to lasting youth,
In ordinances yet unwrit,
But honoured as the truth;
Where insight, with its heavenly gate,
Expands to earthly ken
Tremendous oracles of Fate,
And broadens hearts of men;
Where feelings, that no mould can frame
Nor measure, leap in awe
To one great impulse fierce as flame—
Red revolution's law.
Mortals to lasting youth,
In ordinances yet unwrit,
But honoured as the truth;
Where insight, with its heavenly gate,
Expands to earthly ken
Tremendous oracles of Fate,
And broadens hearts of men;
Where feelings, that no mould can frame
Nor measure, leap in awe
To one great impulse fierce as flame—
Red revolution's law.
It tolls—as through the troubled air,
From some dim distant height,
A mourning bell, that message fair
Singeth to souls in night;
If heroes, whom the world knew not,
Depart with white set lips
Into the silence, without spot,
As into haven ships;
If earthquake rocks, and despots fall
As despots ever fell,
Less missed than glandered steed from stall—
Red revolution's knell.
From some dim distant height,
A mourning bell, that message fair
Singeth to souls in night;
If heroes, whom the world knew not,
Depart with white set lips
Into the silence, without spot,
As into haven ships;
If earthquake rocks, and despots fall
As despots ever fell,
Less missed than glandered steed from stall—
Red revolution's knell.
It echoes—in the solemn sound
Of falling truths and trees,
While saws and sentences are ground,
And each to slay agrees;
While capital takes fright, and flies
To other safer soil,
And labour for itself applies
The treasures of its toil;
In ghastly stabs, that make to reel
Our gnarled and and ancient Oak,
Done by the Traitor Woodman's steel—
Red revolution's stroke.
Of falling truths and trees,
While saws and sentences are ground,
And each to slay agrees;
404
To other safer soil,
And labour for itself applies
The treasures of its toil;
In ghastly stabs, that make to reel
Our gnarled and and ancient Oak,
Done by the Traitor Woodman's steel—
Red revolution's stroke.
It throbs—through every noble deed,
Wrought though by nameless hand,
That sows the everlasting seed
Of a more Christian land;
Through beauteous words, the wondrous birth
Of better thoughts and things,
That round all classes put one girth,
White as an angel's wings;
Through tender signs, that soften hearts
Which hates and fears convulse,
With something more than Culture's arts—
Red revolution's pulse.
Wrought though by nameless hand,
That sows the everlasting seed
Of a more Christian land;
Through beauteous words, the wondrous birth
Of better thoughts and things,
That round all classes put one girth,
White as an angel's wings;
Through tender signs, that soften hearts
Which hates and fears convulse,
With something more than Culture's arts—
Red revolution's pulse.
It grows—a fatal force, in breast
Big with a cancerous ill,
And doubly pledged to take no rest,
Ere bloodshed pay the bill;
A sickness in the camp and fleet,
That palsies loyal arms,
And sends through quaking shroud and sheet
The fever of alarms;
A trembling, in the golden ring,
On titled harlots cast,
Who sell their bodies to their king—
Red revolution's blast.
Big with a cancerous ill,
And doubly pledged to take no rest,
Ere bloodshed pay the bill;
A sickness in the camp and fleet,
That palsies loyal arms,
And sends through quaking shroud and sheet
The fever of alarms;
A trembling, in the golden ring,
On titled harlots cast,
Who sell their bodies to their king—
Red revolution's blast.
It spreads—a terror in the town,
And to the country woe,
That catches at the satin gown,
And is of Fashion foe;
A nightmare, that in college creeps,
Nor spares the very Court,
And wakes the sentinel, who sleeps
In every lazy port;
A thrilling throe, o'er flood and field,
And in the maiden's bower,
That shakes both couch and battle shield—
Red revolution's power.
And to the country woe,
That catches at the satin gown,
And is of Fashion foe;
A nightmare, that in college creeps,
Nor spares the very Court,
And wakes the sentinel, who sleeps
In every lazy port;
A thrilling throe, o'er flood and field,
And in the maiden's bower,
That shakes both couch and battle shield—
Red revolution's power.
It hardens—finding form and place
In baby minds, and text
In woman robbed of woman's grace,
By progress all unsexed;
Against the jades from palace door,
As daintily they tread,
Upon the bruised and bleeding poor,
Who butter all their bread;
Against the Science, that shapes worse
The troubled toiler's fate,
And only swells the sweater's purse—
Red revolution's hate.
In baby minds, and text
In woman robbed of woman's grace,
By progress all unsexed;
405
As daintily they tread,
Upon the bruised and bleeding poor,
Who butter all their bread;
Against the Science, that shapes worse
The troubled toiler's fate,
And only swells the sweater's purse—
Red revolution's hate.
It glows—a sunrise in the east,
A morning with no cloud,
That brings the famished soul a feast,
A wedding robe for shroud;
With fingers motherly, that take
The helpless sufferer's part,
And for the sorrowing outcast make
A home within a heart;
With kiss, that is to purer breath
Soft as the settling dove,
And to the wicked whisper death—
Red revolution's love.
A morning with no cloud,
That brings the famished soul a feast,
A wedding robe for shroud;
With fingers motherly, that take
The helpless sufferer's part,
And for the sorrowing outcast make
A home within a heart;
With kiss, that is to purer breath
Soft as the settling dove,
And to the wicked whisper death—
Red revolution's love.
It strikes—as on the anvil falls,
Just when the iron is hot,
The hammer, that a people calls
Unto a larger lot;
At last, at last, with brighter brow
When comes, and kingships flee,
The man, that is one nation, now
United to be free;
If tempest turn, a while, the milk
Of human kindness sour,
And homespun spurn the sin in silk—
Red revolution's hour.
Just when the iron is hot,
The hammer, that a people calls
Unto a larger lot;
At last, at last, with brighter brow
When comes, and kingships flee,
The man, that is one nation, now
United to be free;
If tempest turn, a while, the milk
Of human kindness sour,
And homespun spurn the sin in silk—
Red revolution's hour.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |