The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems By Gerald Massey. Fifth Edition, Revised and Enlarged |
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EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT. |
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 | The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems |  |
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EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT.
People of England, rouse ye from your dreaming!
Sinew your souls for Freedom's glorious leap:
Look to the Future, where our day-spring 's gleaming:
Lo! a pulse stirs that never more shall sleep
In the world's heart. Men's eyes flash wide with wonder!
The Robbers tremble in their mightiest tower,
Strange words roll o'er their souls with wheels of thunder,
The leaves from Royalty's tree fall hour by hour,—
Earthquakes leap in our Temples, crumbling Throne and Power.
Sinew your souls for Freedom's glorious leap:
Look to the Future, where our day-spring 's gleaming:
Lo! a pulse stirs that never more shall sleep
In the world's heart. Men's eyes flash wide with wonder!
The Robbers tremble in their mightiest tower,
Strange words roll o'er their souls with wheels of thunder,
The leaves from Royalty's tree fall hour by hour,—
Earthquakes leap in our Temples, crumbling Throne and Power.
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Vampyres have drain'd the human heart's best blood,
Kings robb'd, and Priests have curst us in God's name:
Out in the midnight of the Past we've stood—
While fiends of darkness plied their hellish game.
We have been worshipping a gilded crown,
Which drew heaven's lightning-laughter on our head;
Chains fell on us as we were bowing down;
We deem'd our Gods divine, but lo! instead—
They are but painted clay,—with morn the charm has fled!
Kings robb'd, and Priests have curst us in God's name:
Out in the midnight of the Past we've stood—
While fiends of darkness plied their hellish game.
We have been worshipping a gilded crown,
Which drew heaven's lightning-laughter on our head;
Chains fell on us as we were bowing down;
We deem'd our Gods divine, but lo! instead—
They are but painted clay,—with morn the charm has fled!
And this is merry England,—cradling-place
Of souls self-deified and glory-crown'd!
Where smiles made splendour in the Peasant's face,
And Justice reign'd—Her awful eyes close-bound!
Where Toil with open brow went on light-hearted,
And twain in love Law never thrust apart?
How is the glory of our life departed
From us, who sit and nurse our bleeding smart;
And slink, afraid to break the laws that break the heart!
Of souls self-deified and glory-crown'd!
Where smiles made splendour in the Peasant's face,
And Justice reign'd—Her awful eyes close-bound!
Where Toil with open brow went on light-hearted,
And twain in love Law never thrust apart?
How is the glory of our life departed
From us, who sit and nurse our bleeding smart;
And slink, afraid to break the laws that break the heart!
Husht be the Herald on the walls of fame,
Trumping this People as their Country's pride;
Weep rather, with your souls on fire with shame:
See ye not how the palaced knaves deride
Us flatter'd fools? how priestcraft, strong and stealthy,
Stabs at our freedom through its veil of night,
And grinds the poor to flush its coffers wealthy?
Hear how the land groans in the grip of Might,
Then quaff your cup of Wrongs, and laud a Briton's “Right.”
Trumping this People as their Country's pride;
Weep rather, with your souls on fire with shame:
See ye not how the palaced knaves deride
Us flatter'd fools? how priestcraft, strong and stealthy,
Stabs at our freedom through its veil of night,
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Hear how the land groans in the grip of Might,
Then quaff your cup of Wrongs, and laud a Briton's “Right.”
There's not a spot in all this flowery land,
Where Tyranny's cursed brand-mark has not been:
O! were it not for its all-blasting hand,
Dear Christ, what a sweet heaven this might have been!
Has it not hunted forth our spirits brave,—
Kill'd the red rose of health that crown'd our daughters,
Wedded our living hopes unto the grave,—
Filled happy homes with strife, the world with slaughters,
And turn'd our thoughts to blood—to gall, the heart's sweet waters?
Where Tyranny's cursed brand-mark has not been:
O! were it not for its all-blasting hand,
Dear Christ, what a sweet heaven this might have been!
Has it not hunted forth our spirits brave,—
Kill'd the red rose of health that crown'd our daughters,
Wedded our living hopes unto the grave,—
Filled happy homes with strife, the world with slaughters,
And turn'd our thoughts to blood—to gall, the heart's sweet waters?
Where is the spirit of our ancient Sires,
Who, bleeding, wrung their Rights from tyrannies olden?
God-spirits have been here, for Freedom fires
From out their ashes, to earth's heart enfolden;
The mighty dead lie slumbering around,—
Whose names thrill thro' us as Gods were in the air;
Life leaps from where their dust makes holy ground:
Their deeds spring forth in glory,—live all-where,—
But we are traitors to the trust they bade us bear.
Who, bleeding, wrung their Rights from tyrannies olden?
God-spirits have been here, for Freedom fires
From out their ashes, to earth's heart enfolden;
The mighty dead lie slumbering around,—
Whose names thrill thro' us as Gods were in the air;
Life leaps from where their dust makes holy ground:
Their deeds spring forth in glory,—live all-where,—
But we are traitors to the trust they bade us bear.
Go forth, when Night is husht, and heaven is clothéd
With smiling stars that in God's presence roll,
Feel the stirr'd spirit leap to them betrothéd,
As Angel-wings were fanning in the soul;
Feel the hot tears flood in the eyes upturning,
The tide of goodness heave its brightest waves,—
Then suddenly crush the grand and God-ward yearning
With the mad thought that ye are bounden slaves!
O! how long will ye make your hearts its living graves?
With smiling stars that in God's presence roll,
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As Angel-wings were fanning in the soul;
Feel the hot tears flood in the eyes upturning,
The tide of goodness heave its brightest waves,—
Then suddenly crush the grand and God-ward yearning
With the mad thought that ye are bounden slaves!
O! how long will ye make your hearts its living graves?
Immortal Liberty! we see thee stand
Like Morn just stept from heaven upon a mountain
With beautiful feet, and blessing-laden hand,
And heart that welleth Love's most living fountain!
O! when wilt thou string on the People's lyre
Joy's broken chord? and on the People's brow
Set Empire's crown? light up thy beacon-fire
Within their hearts, with an undying glow;
Nor give us blood for milk, as men are drunk with now?
Like Morn just stept from heaven upon a mountain
With beautiful feet, and blessing-laden hand,
And heart that welleth Love's most living fountain!
O! when wilt thou string on the People's lyre
Joy's broken chord? and on the People's brow
Set Empire's crown? light up thy beacon-fire
Within their hearts, with an undying glow;
Nor give us blood for milk, as men are drunk with now?
Curst, curst be war, the World's most fatal glory!
Ye wakening nations, burst its guilty thrall!
Time waits with out-stretcht hand to shroud the gory
Grim glaive of strife behind Oblivion's pall.
The Tyrant laughs at swords, the cannon's rattle
Thunders no terror on his murderous soul.
Thought, Mind, must conquer Might, and in this battle
The Warrior's cuirass, or the Sophist's stole,
Shall blunt no lance of light, no onset backward roll.
Ye wakening nations, burst its guilty thrall!
Time waits with out-stretcht hand to shroud the gory
Grim glaive of strife behind Oblivion's pall.
The Tyrant laughs at swords, the cannon's rattle
Thunders no terror on his murderous soul.
Thought, Mind, must conquer Might, and in this battle
The Warrior's cuirass, or the Sophist's stole,
Shall blunt no lance of light, no onset backward roll.
Old Poets tell us of a golden age,
When earth was guiltless,—Gods the guests of men,
Ere sin had dimm'd the heart's illumined page,—
And Sinai-voices say 't will come again.
O! happy age! when Love shall rule the heart,
And time to live shall be the poor man's dower,
When Martyrs bleed no more, nor Exiles smart,—
Mind is the only diadem of power.—
People, it ripens now! awake! and strike the hour.
When earth was guiltless,—Gods the guests of men,
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And Sinai-voices say 't will come again.
O! happy age! when Love shall rule the heart,
And time to live shall be the poor man's dower,
When Martyrs bleed no more, nor Exiles smart,—
Mind is the only diadem of power.—
People, it ripens now! awake! and strike the hour.
Hearts, high and mighty, gather in our cause;
Bless, bless, O God, and crown their earnest labour,
Who dauntless fight to win us equal laws,
With mental armour, and with spirit-sabre!
Bless, bless, O God! the proud intelligence,
That like a sun dawns on the People's forehead,—
Humanity springs from them like incense,
The Future bursts upon them, boundless—starried—
They weep repentant tears, that they so long have tarried.
Bless, bless, O God, and crown their earnest labour,
Who dauntless fight to win us equal laws,
With mental armour, and with spirit-sabre!
Bless, bless, O God! the proud intelligence,
That like a sun dawns on the People's forehead,—
Humanity springs from them like incense,
The Future bursts upon them, boundless—starried—
They weep repentant tears, that they so long have tarried.
| The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems | |