 | Ballads and Lyrics of Socialism: 1883-1908 |  |
9
Marching Song
‘O wherefore do ye stand, a stern and steadfast band,
With your feet upon the pathway whence fame has turned away?’
We hunger not for fame, nor heed world's praise or blame,
Since fame and honour parted this many many a day!
With your feet upon the pathway whence fame has turned away?’
We hunger not for fame, nor heed world's praise or blame,
Since fame and honour parted this many many a day!
‘What colour do ye wear—what banner do ye bear
When you turn your faces fightwards, and make your weapons keen?’
Our banner's folds are red as our blood which we will shed
Ere that again be suffered which heretofore has been!
When you turn your faces fightwards, and make your weapons keen?’
Our banner's folds are red as our blood which we will shed
Ere that again be suffered which heretofore has been!
‘Whom, then, do ye befriend, whose cause do ye defend—
Are there any need such champions and fighting men as ye?’
Our arms and hearts are strong for all who suffer wrong,
And a world of woe can witness how many such there be!
Are there any need such champions and fighting men as ye?’
Our arms and hearts are strong for all who suffer wrong,
And a world of woe can witness how many such there be!
‘But the Golden Calf stands high, and all its priests will cry,
“Ye are heretics and outcasts if ye worship not as we”!’
'Tis our only boast to-day that we worship not as they,
And to their cursed idol will never bow the knee!
“Ye are heretics and outcasts if ye worship not as we”!’
'Tis our only boast to-day that we worship not as they,
And to their cursed idol will never bow the knee!
‘What armies fight for you, O ye who are so few,
O ye who are so few in a world that is so wide?’
The Spirits of the Light shall do battle for the Right—
And who shall be against us, if these be on our side?
O ye who are so few in a world that is so wide?’
The Spirits of the Light shall do battle for the Right—
And who shall be against us, if these be on our side?
1887.
10
The Dead to the Living
Work while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work
In the childhood of April, while purple woods
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
It was hard and hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of our living lips,
And be side by side with the dead.
For with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake....
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the springtime stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by ner side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved.
With the young year's blood in them smiled,
I passed through the lanes and the wakened fields,
And stood by the grave of the child.
And the pain awoke that is never dead
Though it sometimes sleeps, and again
It set its teeth in this heart of mine,
And fastened its claws in my brain:
It was hard and hard that the little hands
And the little well-loved head
Should be out of reach of our living lips,
And be side by side with the dead.
For with trees about where the brown birds build,
And with long green grass above,
She lies in the cold sweet breast of earth
Beyond the reach of our love;
Whatever befalls in the coarse loud world,
We know she will never wake.
When I thought of the sorrow she might have known,
I was almost glad for her sake....
Tears might have tired those kiss-closed eyes,
Grief hardened the mouth I kissed;
I was almost glad that my dear was dead
Because of the pain she had missed.
Oh, if I could but have died a child
With a white child-soul like hers,
As pure as the wind-flowers down in the copse,
Where the soul of the springtime stirs;
Or if I had only done with it all,
And might lie by ner side unmoved!
I envied the very clods of earth
Their place near the child I loved.
11
And my soul rose up in revolt at life,
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours;
And I knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
As I stood dry-eyed by her grave,
When sudden the grass of the churchyard sod
Rolled back like a green smooth wave;
The brown earth looked like the brown sea rocks,
The tombstones were white like spray,
And white like surf were the curling folds
Of the shrouds where the dead men lay;
For each in his place with his quiet face
I saw the dead lie low,
Who had worked and suffered and found life sad,
So many sad years ago.
Unchanged by time I saw them lie
As when first they were laid to rest,
The tired eyes closed, the sad lips still,
And the work-worn hands on the breast.
There were some who had found the green world so grey,
They had left it before their time,
And some were little ones like my dear,
And some had died in their prime;
And some were old, they had had their fill
Of bitter unfruitful hours;
And I knew that none of them, none, had known
A flower of a hope like ours!
Through their shut eyelids the dead looked up,
And without a voice they said:
‘We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
With our little lanterns of human love
We lighted our dark warm night—
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face—
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?’
‘My world while I may,’ I cried; ‘but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?’
‘We too are a part of the coming light,’
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me—
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the eyes that I always see.
And without a voice they said:
‘We lived without hope, without hope we died,
And hopeless we lie here dead;
And death is better than life that draws
Pain in, as it draws in breath,
If life never dreams of a coming day
When life shall not envy death.
Through the dark of our hours and our times we lived,
Uncheered by a single ray
Of such hope as lightens the lives of you
Who are finding life hard to-day;
12
We lighted our dark warm night—
But you in the chill of the dawn are set
With your face to the eastern light.
Freedom is waiting with hands held out
Till you tear the veil from her face—
And when once men have seen the light of her eyes,
And felt her divine embrace
The light of the world will be risen indeed,
And will shine in the eyes of men,
And those who come after will find life fair,
And their lives worth living then!
Will you strive to the light in your loud rough world,
That these things may come to pass,
Or lie in the shadow beside the child,
And strive to the sun through the grass?’
‘My world while I may,’ I cried; ‘but you
Whose lives were as dark as your grave?’
‘We too are a part of the coming light,’
They called through the smooth green wave.
Their white shrouds gleamed as the flood of green
Rolled over and hid them from me—
Hid all but the little hands and the hair,
And the eyes that I always see.
1886.
Two Lives
I
One stood with his face to the light;
He held a sceptre of song
That ruled men's souls till they strove to the right,
And set their feet on the wrong.
He held a sceptre of song
That ruled men's souls till they strove to the right,
And set their feet on the wrong.
13
‘I am but a slave,’ he said,
‘The servant of man am I,
To sing of the life that is more than bread,
And the deaths that are life to die.
‘The servant of man am I,
To sing of the life that is more than bread,
And the deaths that are life to die.
‘And the might of my song shall sway
The millions who sit in shame,
Till they cast their idols of gold away,
And worship the true God's name.’
The millions who sit in shame,
Till they cast their idols of gold away,
And worship the true God's name.’
So he sang, and the nations heard
Through their drunken sleep of years,
And their limbs in their golden fetters stirred
As he sang to their drowsy ears.
Through their drunken sleep of years,
And their limbs in their golden fetters stirred
As he sang to their drowsy ears.
Hope woke, in her spellbound bowers,
And gave heed to each clear keen word,
Till Love looked out from a net of flowers,
And called to his heart—and he heard.
And gave heed to each clear keen word,
Till Love looked out from a net of flowers,
And called to his heart—and he heard.
And his song rose higher, more sweet,
As his dreams rose more sweet, more high:
‘'Tis Love shall aid me, and shall complete
The spell I shall conquer by!
As his dreams rose more sweet, more high:
‘'Tis Love shall aid me, and shall complete
The spell I shall conquer by!
‘We two to men's souls will sing,
And the work shall be ours, be ours;
Together welcome the thorns that bring
More fruit than the sweetest flowers!’
And the work shall be ours, be ours;
Together welcome the thorns that bring
More fruit than the sweetest flowers!’
But the woman he loved said ‘No!
To me all your soul is due,
Can I share with a world, whatever its woe,
My heart's one treasure, you?
To me all your soul is due,
Can I share with a world, whatever its woe,
My heart's one treasure, you?
‘There are plenty to sing of the right
And give their lives for the truth—
But you are mine, and shall sing delight,
And beauty, and love, and youth.
And give their lives for the truth—
But you are mine, and shall sing delight,
And beauty, and love, and youth.
14
‘For these are the songs men love,
These stir their dull brains like wine.
They hate the songs you were proudest of
In the days when you were not mine.
These stir their dull brains like wine.
They hate the songs you were proudest of
In the days when you were not mine.
‘And if for the world you sing
It will pay you with fame and gold,
And the fame and the gold to me you shall bring
For my heart and my hands to hold.
It will pay you with fame and gold,
And the fame and the gold to me you shall bring
For my heart and my hands to hold.
‘Besides—what steads it to try,
One man against all the rest?
Let the world and its rights and its wrongs go by,
And hide your eyes on my breast!’
One man against all the rest?
Let the world and its rights and its wrongs go by,
And hide your eyes on my breast!’
Then the man bowed down his bead
And she crowned him with roses sweet;
And he laboured for fame and bread,
And laid his wage at her feet.
And she crowned him with roses sweet;
And he laboured for fame and bread,
And laid his wage at her feet.
And the millions who starve and sin,
He shut them out of his life
Where she was alone shut in—
His ruin, his prize, his wife.
He shut them out of his life
Where she was alone shut in—
His ruin, his prize, his wife.
And all that he might have been,
And all that he might have done,
These lie with the things that shall not be seen
For ever under the sun.
And all that he might have done,
These lie with the things that shall not be seen
For ever under the sun.
His children play round his knee,
But he sighs as they come and go—
For they speak of visions he cannot see,
In a tongue that he used to know.
But he sighs as they come and go—
For they speak of visions he cannot see,
In a tongue that he used to know.
He sings of love and of flowers,
And forgets what they used to mean,
For gold is lord of his empty hours,
And fame of his soul is queen.
And forgets what they used to mean,
For gold is lord of his empty hours,
And fame of his soul is queen.
15
And the woman has long possessed
What she bade him win for her sake;
But she holds with the gold accurst unrest,
And the fame with a wild heart-ache.
What she bade him win for her sake;
But she holds with the gold accurst unrest,
And the fame with a wild heart-ache.
For the light in her eyes is dim,
Or dim are his eyes that gaze.
There is no light that can light for him
The gloom of his sordid days.
Or dim are his eyes that gaze.
There is no light that can light for him
The gloom of his sordid days.
He will die, and his name be enrolled
Where marble makes mock of clay;
(Oh, the pitiful clay, made brave with gold!)
And there let it rot away!
Where marble makes mock of clay;
(Oh, the pitiful clay, made brave with gold!)
And there let it rot away!
II
One stood in the way of life
And said: ‘I will serve and strive
And never weary of strife
For just so long as I live.
And said: ‘I will serve and strive
And never weary of strife
For just so long as I live.
‘The sum of service I'm worth
I swear it, beyond recall,
To the mother of all, the earth,
To men, the brothers of all.
I swear it, beyond recall,
To the mother of all, the earth,
To men, the brothers of all.
‘I have no voice for a song,
No trumpet nor lyre is mine,
But my sword is sharp, and my arm is strong:
Liberty! these are thine!’
No trumpet nor lyre is mine,
But my sword is sharp, and my arm is strong:
Liberty! these are thine!’
So he followed where high hopes led,
And he paused not for blame or praise,
But ever rejoiced to tread
The roughest and rightest ways.
And he paused not for blame or praise,
But ever rejoiced to tread
The roughest and rightest ways.
16
He scorned ambitions and powers,
Delight was to him but a word,
Till Love looked out from a brake of flowers
And called to his heart, and he heard.
Delight was to him but a word,
Till Love looked out from a brake of flowers
And called to his heart, and he heard.
Then the man's whole soul cried sore:
‘I am tired of patience and pain!
What if the lights that have gone before
Should be but visions and vain?
‘I am tired of patience and pain!
What if the lights that have gone before
Should be but visions and vain?
‘Why should my youth be spent
In following a marsh-light gleam?
Why should my manhood be content
With what may be but a dream?
In following a marsh-light gleam?
Why should my manhood be content
With what may be but a dream?
‘The sword I am used to wield
Is as much as my hands can hold,
I will turn aside from the battle-field
To the fields where men gather gold.
Is as much as my hands can hold,
I will turn aside from the battle-field
To the fields where men gather gold.
‘For while I carry the sword
I can hold neither gold nor you—
And the sword is heavy, and your least word
Is music my life sings to!’
I can hold neither gold nor you—
And the sword is heavy, and your least word
Is music my life sings to!’
But the woman who loved him spake,
She spake brave words with a sigh—
‘Rather than drop the sword for my sake
Turn its point to your heart and die!
She spake brave words with a sigh—
‘Rather than drop the sword for my sake
Turn its point to your heart and die!
‘It is better to die than live
If life means nothing but greed
To clutch the gifts that the world can give
And turn your back on its need.
If life means nothing but greed
To clutch the gifts that the world can give
And turn your back on its need.
‘And I have my life-work too,
A banner to bear have I;
Shall my flag be dragged in the dust by you,
Who should help me to hold it high?
A banner to bear have I;
Shall my flag be dragged in the dust by you,
Who should help me to hold it high?
17
‘Hard looks life's every line
When the colours of love are effaced,
But death would be harder, O heart of mine,
After a life disgraced!
When the colours of love are effaced,
But death would be harder, O heart of mine,
After a life disgraced!
‘And what though we never see
Sweet Love's sweet fruit at its best;
My children's play at your knee,
Your baby's sleep at my breast?
Sweet Love's sweet fruit at its best;
My children's play at your knee,
Your baby's sleep at my breast?
‘Only one life is ours—
Shall we die with no world's work done,
Having covered our shame with flowers,
And shrunk from sight of the sun?
Shall we die with no world's work done,
Having covered our shame with flowers,
And shrunk from sight of the sun?
‘No! Be the sword for him,
Banner of light for me—
Voice at the heart when the eyes grow dim,
“Liberty! This for thee!”’
Banner of light for me—
Voice at the heart when the eyes grow dim,
“Liberty! This for thee!”’
Then he bowed him low at her knees,
And she gave him the thorny crown
Which whoso wears knows no rest nor ease
Till Death bids him lay it down.
And she gave him the thorny crown
Which whoso wears knows no rest nor ease
Till Death bids him lay it down.
And they turned, and they passed away
To parting, and longing, and tears,
To carry the sword and the flag away
Through the cold clean desolate years,
To parting, and longing, and tears,
To carry the sword and the flag away
Through the cold clean desolate years,
To work for the world, and to hear
When the long race nearly is run,
Like a voice in a dream, a voice most dear,
‘Faithful and good, well done!’
When the long race nearly is run,
Like a voice in a dream, a voice most dear,
‘Faithful and good, well done!’
And no man remembers his name,
Nor hers, who was never his wife.
Their names are written in letters of flame
In the book of eternal life.
Nor hers, who was never his wife.
Their names are written in letters of flame
In the book of eternal life.
18
All in All
When all the night is horrible with clamour
Of voiceless curses darker than the night,
When light of sun there is not, neither starshine,
Nor any beacon on the hill of Right,
Shine, O thou Light of Life, upon our pathway—
Freedom, be thou our light!
Of voiceless curses darker than the night,
When light of sun there is not, neither starshine,
Nor any beacon on the hill of Right,
Shine, O thou Light of Life, upon our pathway—
Freedom, be thou our light!
Since all life's ways are difficult and dreary,
And false steps echo through eternity,
And there is naught to lean on as we journey
By paths not smooth as downward paths would be,
We have no other help—we need no other;
Freedom, we lean on thee!
And false steps echo through eternity,
And there is naught to lean on as we journey
By paths not smooth as downward paths would be,
We have no other help—we need no other;
Freedom, we lean on thee!
The slave's base murmur and the threats of tyrants,
The voice of cowards who cringe and cry ‘Retreat,’
The whisper of the world, ‘Come where power calls thee!’
The whisper of the flesh, ‘Let life be sweet.’
Silence all these with thy divine commanding;
Guide thou thy children's feet!
The voice of cowards who cringe and cry ‘Retreat,’
The whisper of the world, ‘Come where power calls thee!’
The whisper of the flesh, ‘Let life be sweet.’
Silence all these with thy divine commanding;
Guide thou thy children's feet!
For thee, for thee we bear the cross, the banner,
For thee are all our battles fought and won;
For thee was every prayer we ever uttered,
For thee has every deed of ours been done;
To thee we press—to thee, triumphant splendour,
O Freedom, lead us on!
For thee are all our battles fought and won;
For thee was every prayer we ever uttered,
For thee has every deed of ours been done;
To thee we press—to thee, triumphant splendour,
O Freedom, lead us on!
Where thou shalt lead we do not fear to follow.
Thou hast our hearts; we follow them in thee.
Spirit of Light, whatever thou shalt show us,
Strong in the faith, we shall not fear to see;
We reach to thee through all the waves of darkness
Of all the days to be.
Thou hast our hearts; we follow them in thee.
Spirit of Light, whatever thou shalt show us,
Strong in the faith, we shall not fear to see;
We reach to thee through all the waves of darkness
Of all the days to be.
19
The Ballad of Splendid Silence
In Memoriam. Ferencz Renyi, Hungary, 1848.
This is the story of Renyi,
And when you have heard it through,
Pray God He send no trial like his
To try the faith of you.
And when you have heard it through,
Pray God He send no trial like his
To try the faith of you.
And if his doom be upon you,
Then may God grant you this:
To fight as good a fight as he,
And win a crown like his!
Then may God grant you this:
To fight as good a fight as he,
And win a crown like his!
He was strong and handsome and happy,
Beloved and loving and young,
With eyes that men set their trust in,
And the fire of his soul on his tongue.
Beloved and loving and young,
With eyes that men set their trust in,
And the fire of his soul on his tongue.
He loved the Spirit of Freedom,
He hated his country's wrongs,
He told the patriots' stories,
And he sang the patriots' songs.
He hated his country's wrongs,
He told the patriots' stories,
And he sang the patriots' songs.
With mother and sister and sweetheart
His safe glad days went by,
Till Hungary called on her children
To arm, to fight, and to die.
His safe glad days went by,
Till Hungary called on her children
To arm, to fight, and to die.
‘Good-bye to mother and sister;
Good-bye to my sweet sweetheart;
I fight for you—you pray for me,
We shall not be apart!’
Good-bye to my sweet sweetheart;
I fight for you—you pray for me,
We shall not be apart!’
The women prayed at the sunrise,
They prayed when the skies grew dim;
His mother and sister prayed for the Cause,
His sweetheart prayed for him.
They prayed when the skies grew dim;
His mother and sister prayed for the Cause,
His sweetheart prayed for him.
20
For mother and sister and sweetheart,
But most for the true and the right,
He low laid down his own life's hopes
And led his men to fight.
But most for the true and the right,
He low laid down his own life's hopes
And led his men to fight.
Skirmishing, scouting, and spying,
Night-watch, attack, and defeat;
The resolute, desperate fighting,
The hopeless, reluctant retreat;
Night-watch, attack, and defeat;
The resolute, desperate fighting,
The hopeless, reluctant retreat;
Ruin, defeat, and disaster,
Capture and loss and despair,
And half of his regiment hidden,
And only this man knew where!
Capture and loss and despair,
And half of his regiment hidden,
And only this man knew where!
Prisoner, fast bound, sore wounded,
They brought him roughly along
With his body as weak and broken
As his spirit was steadfast and strong
They brought him roughly along
With his body as weak and broken
As his spirit was steadfast and strong
Before the Austrian general—
‘Where are your men?’ he heard;
He looked black death in its ugly face
And answered never a word.
‘Where are your men?’ he heard;
He looked black death in its ugly face
And answered never a word.
‘Where is your regiment hidden?
Speak—you are pardoned straight.
No? We can find dumb dogs their tongues,
You rebel reprobate!’
Speak—you are pardoned straight.
No? We can find dumb dogs their tongues,
You rebel reprobate!’
They dragged his mother and sister
Into the open hall.
‘Give up your men, if these women
Are dear to your heart at all!’
Into the open hall.
‘Give up your men, if these women
Are dear to your heart at all!’
He turned his eyes on his sister,
And spoke to her silently;
She answered his silence with speaking,
And straight from the heart spoke she:
And spoke to her silently;
She answered his silence with speaking,
And straight from the heart spoke she:
21
‘If you betray your country,
You spit on our father's name;
And what is life without honour?
And what is death without shame?’
You spit on our father's name;
And what is life without honour?
And what is death without shame?’
He looked on the mother who bore him,
And her smile was splendid to see;
He hid his face with a bitter cry,
But never a word said he.
And her smile was splendid to see;
He hid his face with a bitter cry,
But never a word said he.
‘Son of my body—be silent!
My days at the best are few,
And I shall know how to give them,
Son of my heart, for you!’
My days at the best are few,
And I shall know how to give them,
Son of my heart, for you!’
He shivered, set teeth, kept silence:
With never a plaint or cry
The women were slain before him,
And he stood and he saw them die.
With never a plaint or cry
The women were slain before him,
And he stood and he saw them die.
Then they brought his lovely beloved,
Desire of his heart and eyes.
‘Say where your men are hidden,
Or say that your sweetheart dies.’
Desire of his heart and eyes.
‘Say where your men are hidden,
Or say that your sweetheart dies.’
She threw her arms about him,
She laid her lips to his cheek:
‘Speak! for my sake who love you!
Love, for our love's sake, speak!’
She laid her lips to his cheek:
‘Speak! for my sake who love you!
Love, for our love's sake, speak!’
His eyes are burning and shining
With the fire of immortal disgrace—
Christ! walk with him in the furnace
And strengthen his soul for a space!
With the fire of immortal disgrace—
Christ! walk with him in the furnace
And strengthen his soul for a space!
Long he looked at his sweetheart
His eyes grew tender and wet;
Closely he held her to him,
His lips to her lips were set.
His eyes grew tender and wet;
Closely he held her to him,
His lips to her lips were set.
22
‘See! I am young! I love you!
I am not ready to die!
One word makes us happy for ever,
Together, you and I.’
I am not ready to die!
One word makes us happy for ever,
Together, you and I.’
Her arms round his neck were clinging,
Her lips his cold lips caressed;
He suddenly flung her from him,
And folded his arms on his breast.
Her lips his cold lips caressed;
He suddenly flung her from him,
And folded his arms on his breast.
She wept, she shrieked, she struggled,
She cursed him in God's name,
For the woe of her early dying,
And for her dying's shame.
She cursed him in God's name,
For the woe of her early dying,
And for her dying's shame.
And still he stood, and his silence
Like fire was burning him through,
Then the muskets spoke once, through his silence,
And she was silent too.
Like fire was burning him through,
Then the muskets spoke once, through his silence,
And she was silent too.
They turned to torture him further,
If further might be—in vain;
He had held his peace in that threefold hell,
And he never spoke again:
If further might be—in vain;
He had held his peace in that threefold hell,
And he never spoke again:
The end of the uttermost anguish
The soul of the man could bear,
Was the madhouse where tyrants bury
The broken shells of despair.
The soul of the man could bear,
Was the madhouse where tyrants bury
The broken shells of despair.
By the heaven renounced in her service,
By the hell thrice braved for her sake,
By the years of madness and silence,
By the heart that her enemies brake;
By the hell thrice braved for her sake,
By the years of madness and silence,
By the heart that her enemies brake;
23
By the young life's promise ruined,
By the years of too living death,
By the passionate self-devotion,
And the absolute perfect faith;
By the years of too living death,
By the passionate self-devotion,
And the absolute perfect faith;
By the thousands who know such anguish,
And share such divine renown,
Who have borne them bravely in battle,
And won the conqueror's crown;
And share such divine renown,
Who have borne them bravely in battle,
And won the conqueror's crown;
By the torments her children have suffered,
By the blood that her martyrs will give,
By the deaths men have died at her altars,
By these shall our Liberty live!
By the blood that her martyrs will give,
By the deaths men have died at her altars,
By these shall our Liberty live!
In the silence of tears, in the burden
Of the wrongs we some day will repay,
Live the brothers who died in all ages
For the Freedom we live for to-day!
Of the wrongs we some day will repay,
Live the brothers who died in all ages
For the Freedom we live for to-day!
1886.
To a Child Reading
Yes, read the pages of the old-world story,
Of kings of noble deed and noble thought
Of heroes whose resplendent crown of glory
Bound their wide brows, unsought.
Of kings of noble deed and noble thought
Of heroes whose resplendent crown of glory
Bound their wide brows, unsought.
But be not sad because their work is ended,
And they have rest which life so long denied:
They still live in the world which they befriended,
For which they lived and died.
And they have rest which life so long denied:
They still live in the world which they befriended,
For which they lived and died.
24
Great deeds can never die: all through the ages
Their fruits increasing ever grow and spread,
And many a deed unnamed in written pages
Lived once—and is not dead.
Their fruits increasing ever grow and spread,
And many a deed unnamed in written pages
Lived once—and is not dead.
And, God be praised, man's work is not completed,
There still is work on earth for men to do;
Not yet, not yet are all the false defeated,
Not yet crowned all the true.
There still is work on earth for men to do;
Not yet, not yet are all the false defeated,
Not yet crowned all the true.
Still the world needs brave deeds and true hearts many,
Not yet are all the noble battles won!
We too, we too may do deeds great as any
That ever yet were done.
Not yet are all the noble battles won!
We too, we too may do deeds great as any
That ever yet were done.
Two Voices
Country
‘Sweet are the lanes and the hedges, the fields made red with the clover,
With tall field-sorrel, and daisies, and golden buttercups glowing;
Sweet is the way through the woods, where at sundown maiden and lover
Linger by stile or by bank where clematis garlands are growing.
Fair is our world when the dew and the dawn thrill the half-wakened roses,
Fair when the corn-fields grow warm with poppies in noonlight gleaming,
Fair through the long afternoon, when hedges and hayfields lie dreaming,
Fair as in lessening light the last convolvulus closes.
With tall field-sorrel, and daisies, and golden buttercups glowing;
Sweet is the way through the woods, where at sundown maiden and lover
Linger by stile or by bank where clematis garlands are growing.
Fair is our world when the dew and the dawn thrill the half-wakened roses,
Fair when the corn-fields grow warm with poppies in noonlight gleaming,
Fair through the long afternoon, when hedges and hayfields lie dreaming,
Fair as in lessening light the last convolvulus closes.
25
‘Scent of geranium and musk that in cottage windows run riot,
Breath from the grass that is down in the meadows each side the highway,
Slumberous hush of the churchyard where we one day may lie quiet,
Murmuring wind through the leaves bent over the meadow byway,
Deeps of cool shadow, and gleams of light on high elmtops shining,
Such peace in the dim green brake as the town, save in dreams, knows never,
But in, through, under it all, the old pain follows us ever—
Ever the old despair, the old unrest and repining.
Breath from the grass that is down in the meadows each side the highway,
Slumberous hush of the churchyard where we one day may lie quiet,
Murmuring wind through the leaves bent over the meadow byway,
Deeps of cool shadow, and gleams of light on high elmtops shining,
Such peace in the dim green brake as the town, save in dreams, knows never,
But in, through, under it all, the old pain follows us ever—
Ever the old despair, the old unrest and repining.
‘Dark is the City's face; but her children who know her find her
Mother to them who are brothers, mindful of brotherhood's duty;
To each of us, lonely, unhelped, the grave would be warmer, kinder,
Than the cold unloving face of our world of blossom and beauty.
Poverty deep and dark cowers under the thatch with the swallows,
Cruel disease lies hid in the changeful breast of the waters,
Drink sets snares for our sons, and shame digs graves for our daughters,
Want and care crush the flower of a youth that no life-fruit follows.
Mother to them who are brothers, mindful of brotherhood's duty;
To each of us, lonely, unhelped, the grave would be warmer, kinder,
Than the cold unloving face of our world of blossom and beauty.
Poverty deep and dark cowers under the thatch with the swallows,
Cruel disease lies hid in the changeful breast of the waters,
Drink sets snares for our sons, and shame digs graves for our daughters,
Want and care crush the flower of a youth that no life-fruit follows.
‘What are the woodland sweets, the meadow's fair flowery treasure,
When we are hungry and sad, and stupid with work and with sorrows?
Leisure for nothing but sleep, and with heart but for sleep in our leisure;
The work of to-day still the same as yesterday's work, and to-morrow's.
Ever the weary round—the treadmill of innocent lives—
Hopeless and helpless, and bowing our back like a hound's to the lashes;
What can seem fair to the eyes that are smarting and sore with the ashes
Blown from the fires that consume the souls of our children and wives?
When we are hungry and sad, and stupid with work and with sorrows?
26
The work of to-day still the same as yesterday's work, and to-morrow's.
Ever the weary round—the treadmill of innocent lives—
Hopeless and helpless, and bowing our back like a hound's to the lashes;
What can seem fair to the eyes that are smarting and sore with the ashes
Blown from the fires that consume the souls of our children and wives?
‘Dreams sometimes we have had of an hour when we might speak plainly,
Raise the mantle and show how the iron eats into our bosom,
The rotting root of the Nation, the worm at the heart of its blossom,
Dreaming we said, “We will speak, when the time for it comes, not vainly.”
Ah—but the time comes never—Life, we are used to bear it,
Starved are our brains and grow not, our hands are fit but for toiling,
If we stretched them out their touch to our masters' hand would be soiling;
Weak is our voice with disuse—too weak for our lords to hear it!’
Raise the mantle and show how the iron eats into our bosom,
The rotting root of the Nation, the worm at the heart of its blossom,
Dreaming we said, “We will speak, when the time for it comes, not vainly.”
Ah—but the time comes never—Life, we are used to bear it,
Starved are our brains and grow not, our hands are fit but for toiling,
If we stretched them out their touch to our masters' hand would be soiling;
Weak is our voice with disuse—too weak for our lords to hear it!’
City
‘So has the spark died out that the torch of hope dropped among you?
So is the burden bound more fast to the shrinking shoulder?
Far too faint are your cries to be heard by the men who wrong you?
And if they heard they are high, and the air as men rise grows colder!
Yet you are men though so weak, and in mine and work-shop your brothers,
Stronger in head, and in heart not less sad, for deliverance are striving;
These will stand fast, and will face the cruel unjust and ungiving,
And you in our ranks shall be, our hearts fast clasped in each other's!
So is the burden bound more fast to the shrinking shoulder?
Far too faint are your cries to be heard by the men who wrong you?
27
Yet you are men though so weak, and in mine and work-shop your brothers,
Stronger in head, and in heart not less sad, for deliverance are striving;
These will stand fast, and will face the cruel unjust and ungiving,
And you in our ranks shall be, our hearts fast clasped in each other's!
‘For in the night of our sorrow cold lights are breaking and brightening
Out in the eastern sky; through the drifting clouds, wind-driven,
Over the earth new gleams and glories are laughing and lightening,
Keener the air grows, clearer; brighter the face of the heaven.
Turn we our face to the east—oh, wind of the dawn, blow to us
Freshness and strength and resolve! The star of old faith grows paler
Before the eyes of our Freedom, though still wrath's red mists veil her,
For this is our battle day; revenge, like our blood, runs through us.
Out in the eastern sky; through the drifting clouds, wind-driven,
Over the earth new gleams and glories are laughing and lightening,
Keener the air grows, clearer; brighter the face of the heaven.
Turn we our face to the east—oh, wind of the dawn, blow to us
Freshness and strength and resolve! The star of old faith grows paler
Before the eyes of our Freedom, though still wrath's red mists veil her,
For this is our battle day; revenge, like our blood, runs through us.
‘This is our vengeance day. Our masters, made fat with our fasting,
Shall fall before us like corn when the sickle for harvest is strong:
Old wrong shall give might to our arm—remembrance of wrong shall make lasting
The graves we will dig for the tyrants we bore with too much and too long.
The sobs of our starving children, the tears of our heartsick mothers,
The moan of your murdered manhood crushed out by their wanton pressure,
The wail of the life-long anguish that paid the price of their pleasure,
These will make funeral music to speed the lost souls of them, brothers!
Shall fall before us like corn when the sickle for harvest is strong:
Old wrong shall give might to our arm—remembrance of wrong shall make lasting
The graves we will dig for the tyrants we bore with too much and too long.
28
The moan of your murdered manhood crushed out by their wanton pressure,
The wail of the life-long anguish that paid the price of their pleasure,
These will make funeral music to speed the lost souls of them, brothers!
‘Shoulder to shoulder we march, and for those who go down 'mid the fighting
With rifles in hand and pikes, and the red flag over them flying,
Glad shall our hearts be for them—who die when our sun is lighting
The warm, wide heavens, and sheds its lovely light on their dying.
Fight, though we lose our dearest—fight, though the battle rages
Fiercer and hotter than ever was fight in the world before:
We must fight—how can men do less? If we die, what can men do more?
And the sun of Freedom shall shine across our graves to the ages!’
With rifles in hand and pikes, and the red flag over them flying,
Glad shall our hearts be for them—who die when our sun is lighting
The warm, wide heavens, and sheds its lovely light on their dying.
Fight, though we lose our dearest—fight, though the battle rages
Fiercer and hotter than ever was fight in the world before:
We must fight—how can men do less? If we die, what can men do more?
And the sun of Freedom shall shine across our graves to the ages!’
1886.
The Sick Journalist
Throb, throb, throb, weariness, ache, and pain!One's heart and one's eyes on fire,
And never a spark in one's brain.
The stupid paper and ink,
That might be turned into gold,
Lie here unused,
Since one's brain refused
To do its tricks—as of old.
One can suffer still, indeed,
But one cannot think any more.
There's no fire in the grate,
No food on the plate,
And the East-wind shrieks through the door.
The sunshine grins in the street:
It used to cheer me like wine,
Now it only quickens my brain's sick beat;
And the children are crying for bread to eat
And I cannot write a line!
Molly, my pet—don't cry,
Father can't write if you do—
And anyhow, if you only knew,
It's hard enough as it is.
There, give old daddy a kiss,
And cuddle down on the floor;
We'll have some dinner by-and-by.
Now, fool, try! Try once more!
Hold your head tight in your hands,
Bring your will to bear!
The children are starving—your little ones—
While you sit fooling there.
Beth, with her golden hair;
Moll, with her rough, brown head—
Here they are—see!
31
Waiting there to be fed!—
I cannot bear their eyes.
Their soft little kisses burn—
They will cry again
In vain, in vain,
For the food that I cannot earn.
If I could only write
Just half a column or so
On ‘The Prospects of Trade,’ or ‘The Irish Question,’ or ‘Why are Wages so Low?’—
The printers are waiting for copy now,
I've had my next week's screw,
There'll be nothing more till I've written something,
God! what am I to do?
If I could only write!
The paper glares up white
Like the cursed white of the heavy stone
Under which she lies alone;
And the ink is black like death,
And the room and the window are black.
Molly, Molly—the sun's gone out,
Cannot you fetch it back?
Did I frighten my little ones?
Never mind, daddy dropped asleep—
Cuddle down closely, creep
Close to his knee
And daddy will see
If he can't do his writing. Vain!
I shall never write again!
Oh, God! was it like a love divine
To make their lives hang on my pen
When I cannot write a line?
32
Two Lullabies
I
Sleep, sleep, my little baby dear,
Thee shall no want or pain come near;
Sleep softly on thy downy nest,
Or on this lace veiled mother-breast.
Thee shall no want or pain come near;
Sleep softly on thy downy nest,
Or on this lace veiled mother-breast.
Thy cradle is all silken lined,
Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,
Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread,
And soft white pillows for thy head.
Wrought roses on thy curtains twined,
Warm woolly blankets o'er thee spread,
And soft white pillows for thy head.
Much gold those little hands shall hold,
And wealth about thy life shall fold,
And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,
Nor the low ills of common life.
And wealth about thy life shall fold,
And thou shalt see nor pain nor strife,
Nor the low ills of common life.
These little feet shall never tread
Except on paths soft-carpeted,
And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine
To deck that darling head of thine.
Except on paths soft-carpeted,
And all life's flowers in wreaths shall twine
To deck that darling head of thine.
Thou shalt have overflowing measure
Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,
And thou shalt be right charitable
With all the crumbs that leave thy table.
Of wealth and joy and peace and pleasure,
And thou shalt be right charitable
With all the crumbs that leave thy table.
And thou shalt praise God every day
For His good gifts that come thy way,
And again thank Him, and again,
That thou art not as other men.
For His good gifts that come thy way,
And again thank Him, and again,
That thou art not as other men.
For 'midst thy wealth thou wilt recall—
'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all;
And when all's spent that life has given,
Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.
'Tis to God's grace thou owest it all;
And when all's spent that life has given,
Thou'lt have a golden home in heaven.
33
II
Sleep, little baby, sleep,
Though the wind is cruel and cold,
And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in
Is old and ragged and thin;
And my hand is too frozen to hold—
Yet my bosom's still warm—so creep
Close to thy mother, and sleep!
Though the wind is cruel and cold,
And my shawl that I've wrapped thee in
Is old and ragged and thin;
And my hand is too frozen to hold—
Yet my bosom's still warm—so creep
Close to thy mother, and sleep!
Sleep, little baby, and rest,
Though we wander alone through the night,
And there is no food for me,
No shelter for me and thee.
Through the windows red fires shine bright,
And tables show, heaped with the best—
But there's naught for us there—so rest.
Though we wander alone through the night,
And there is no food for me,
No shelter for me and thee.
Through the windows red fires shine bright,
And tables show, heaped with the best—
But there's naught for us there—so rest.
Sleep, you poor little thing!
Just as pretty and dear
As any fine lady's child.
Oh, but my heart grows wild!—
Is it worth while to stay here?
What good thing from life will spring
For you—you poor little thing?
Just as pretty and dear
As any fine lady's child.
Oh, but my heart grows wild!—
Is it worth while to stay here?
What good thing from life will spring
For you—you poor little thing?
Sleep, you poor little thing!
Mine, my treasure, my own—
I clasp you, I hold you close,
My darling, my bird, my rose!
Rich mothers have hearts like stone,
Or else some help they would bring
To you—you poor little thing?
Mine, my treasure, my own—
I clasp you, I hold you close,
My darling, my bird, my rose!
Rich mothers have hearts like stone,
Or else some help they would bring
To you—you poor little thing?
Sleep, little baby, sleep—
If some good, rich mother would take
My dear, I would kiss thee, and then
Never come near thee again—
Not though my heart should break!
I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake—
For the river is dark and deep,
And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!
If some good, rich mother would take
My dear, I would kiss thee, and then
Never come near thee again—
34
I could leave thee, dear, for thy sake—
For the river is dark and deep,
And gives sleep, little baby, sleep!
1887.
40
Torch-Bearers
Dark is the night; and through its haunted shadows
We blindly grope and stumble—sometimes fall;
No star is near enough to light the darkness,
And priest-lit tapers cast no light at all,
Save such a feeble and delusive glimmer
As night-lamps cast upon a sick-room wall.
We blindly grope and stumble—sometimes fall;
No star is near enough to light the darkness,
And priest-lit tapers cast no light at all,
Save such a feeble and delusive glimmer
As night-lamps cast upon a sick-room wall.
Yet, each a torch we bear—lit or unlighted;
Burning for self it is a marsh-light's gleam,
Kindled for others 'tis the child of sunlight,
And darkness shrinks through twilight at its beam.
Were each torch duly lit, O world long darkened,
How would you bear the sudden light supreme?
Burning for self it is a marsh-light's gleam,
Kindled for others 'tis the child of sunlight,
And darkness shrinks through twilight at its beam.
Were each torch duly lit, O world long darkened,
How would you bear the sudden light supreme?
Vague dreams and vain! See, thou who idly dreamest
Of what would be if every torch were lit,
See where thine own smoulders a wasted ember,
Thy torch—for noblest uses framed and fit.
Light thine own torch—and hold it to thy brother,
And his shall kindle at the flame of it.
Of what would be if every torch were lit,
See where thine own smoulders a wasted ember,
Thy torch—for noblest uses framed and fit.
Light thine own torch—and hold it to thy brother,
And his shall kindle at the flame of it.
1889.
A Last Appeal
Knowing our needs, hardly knowing our powers,
Hear how we cry to you, brothers of ours!—
Brothers in nature, pulse, passions, and pains,
Our sins in you, and your blood in our veins.
First in your palace, or last in our den,
Basest or best, we are all of us men!
Justice eternal cries out in our name,
What is the least common manhood can claim?
‘Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them—
Give us our turn.’
Hear how we cry to you, brothers of ours!—
Brothers in nature, pulse, passions, and pains,
Our sins in you, and your blood in our veins.
First in your palace, or last in our den,
Basest or best, we are all of us men!
41
What is the least common manhood can claim?
‘Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them—
Give us our turn.’
You with the land and the money, we make
Out of our lives the new wealth that you take.
Have we earned only such pitiful dole
As just holds worn body to desolate soul?
When that soul is bewildered each day and perplext
With the problem of how to get bread for the next,
Is it better to end it, as some of us do,
Or to fight it out bravely, still calling to you—
‘Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them—
Give us our turn’?
Out of our lives the new wealth that you take.
Have we earned only such pitiful dole
As just holds worn body to desolate soul?
When that soul is bewildered each day and perplext
With the problem of how to get bread for the next,
Is it better to end it, as some of us do,
Or to fight it out bravely, still calling to you—
‘Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them—
Give us our turn’?
Ever more passionate grows our demand—
Give us our share of our food and our land:
Give us our rights, make us equal and free—
Let us be all we are not, but might be.
Our sons would be honest, our daughters be pure,
If our wage were more certain, your vices less sure—
Oh, you who are forging the fetters we feel,
Hear our wild protest, our maddened appeal—
‘Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them—
Give us our turn.’
Give us our share of our food and our land:
Give us our rights, make us equal and free—
Let us be all we are not, but might be.
Our sons would be honest, our daughters be pure,
If our wage were more certain, your vices less sure—
Oh, you who are forging the fetters we feel,
Hear our wild protest, our maddened appeal—
‘Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them—
Give us our turn.’
Hear us, and answer, while Time is your friend,
Lest we be answered by God in the end;
Lest, when the flame of His patience burns low,
We be the weapon He shapes for His blow—
Lest with His foot on your necks He shall stand,
And appeal that you spurned be new-born as command,
And thunder your doom, as you die by the rod
Of the vengeance of man through the justice of God.
‘Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them—
Give us our turn.’
Lest we be answered by God in the end;
Lest, when the flame of His patience burns low,
We be the weapon He shapes for His blow—
42
And appeal that you spurned be new-born as command,
And thunder your doom, as you die by the rod
Of the vengeance of man through the justice of God.
‘Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them—
Give us our turn.’
1884.
New Year Song
We climb the hill; the mist conceals
That valley where we could not stay;
Surely this hill's crest, gained, reveals
The glory of the sunlit day.
The hill is climbed. Still shadow-land—
Still darkling looms another hill.
Oh, weary feet!—climb that to find
A new ascent, 'mid shadows still!
We dare not stop or think of rest,
This one hill may be all that lies
Between us and our souls' desire—
The splendour of the eastern skies.
That valley where we could not stay;
Surely this hill's crest, gained, reveals
The glory of the sunlit day.
The hill is climbed. Still shadow-land—
Still darkling looms another hill.
Oh, weary feet!—climb that to find
A new ascent, 'mid shadows still!
We dare not stop or think of rest,
This one hill may be all that lies
Between us and our souls' desire—
The splendour of the eastern skies.
Through long long lives we till and tend,
Sow, weed, and water, all in vain;
Without the flower we looked to find,
Each year springs, blooms, and dies again.
Bowed down with our unanswered prayers,
Our face averted from our past,
We watch each year grow green, and cry,
‘Surely this brings our flower at last!’
Failure on failure! What! tired out?
Too tired to live? Ah, dare you die
When this new year may bud and bear
Your longed-for flower of Liberty?
Sow, weed, and water, all in vain;
Without the flower we looked to find,
Each year springs, blooms, and dies again.
Bowed down with our unanswered prayers,
Our face averted from our past,
We watch each year grow green, and cry,
‘Surely this brings our flower at last!’
Failure on failure! What! tired out?
Too tired to live? Ah, dare you die
When this new year may bud and bear
Your longed-for flower of Liberty?
43
Here and There
Ah me, how hot and weary here in town
The days crawl by!
How otherwise they go my heart records,
Where the marsh meadows lie
And white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sail
Between the lovely earth and lovely sky.
The days crawl by!
How otherwise they go my heart records,
Where the marsh meadows lie
And white sheep crop the grass, and seagulls sail
Between the lovely earth and lovely sky.
Here the sun grins along the dusty street
Beneath pale skies:
Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet,
Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries—
Through these I hear the song that the sea sings
To the far meadowlands of Paradise.
Beneath pale skies:
Hark! spiritless, sad tramp of toiling feet,
Hoarse hawkers, curses, cries—
Through these I hear the song that the sea sings
To the far meadowlands of Paradise.
O golden-lichened church and red-roofed barn—
O long sweet days—
O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gay
With sedge and water mace—
O fair marsh land desirable and dear—
How far from you lie my life's weary ways!
O long sweet days—
O changing, unchanged skies, straight dykes all gay
With sedge and water mace—
O fair marsh land desirable and dear—
How far from you lie my life's weary ways!
Yet in my darkest night there shines a star
More fair than day;
There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white
In the sad city way.
That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam,
That star shines only when the skies are gray.
More fair than day;
There is a flower that blossoms sweet and white
In the sad city way.
That flower blooms not where the wide marshes gleam,
That star shines only when the skies are gray.
For here fair peace and passionate pleasure wane
Before the light
Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life,
And turn to noon our night:
We fight for freedom and the souls of men—
Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!
Before the light
Of radiant dreams that make our lives worth life,
And turn to noon our night:
We fight for freedom and the souls of men—
Here, and not there, is fought and won our fight!
44
A Ballad of Canterbury
Across the grim, gray northern sea
The Danish warships went,
Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty men
On blood and plunder bent;
And they landed on a smiling land—
The garden-land of Kent.
The Danish warships went,
Snake-shaped, and manned by mighty men
On blood and plunder bent;
And they landed on a smiling land—
The garden-land of Kent.
They sacked the farms, they spoiled the corn,
They set the ricks aflame;
They slew the men with axe and sword,
They slew the maids with shame;
Until, to Canterbury town,
Made mad with blood, they came.
They set the ricks aflame;
They slew the men with axe and sword,
They slew the maids with shame;
Until, to Canterbury town,
Made mad with blood, they came.
Archbishop Alphege walked the wall
And looked down on the foe.
‘Now fly, my lord!’ his monks implored,
‘While yet a man may go!’
‘Shame on you, monks of mine,’ he cried,
‘To shame your bishop so!
And looked down on the foe.
‘Now fly, my lord!’ his monks implored,
‘While yet a man may go!’
‘Shame on you, monks of mine,’ he cried,
‘To shame your bishop so!
‘What, would you have the shepherd flee
Like any hireling knave?
What, leave my church, my poor—God's poor,
To a dark and prayerless grave?
No! by the body of my Lord,
My skin I will not save!’
Like any hireling knave?
What, leave my church, my poor—God's poor,
To a dark and prayerless grave?
No! by the body of my Lord,
My skin I will not save!’
And when men heard his true, strong word,
They bore them as men should.
For twenty nights and twenty days
The foemen they withstood,
And, day and night, shone tapers bright,
And incense veiled the rood.
They bore them as men should.
For twenty nights and twenty days
The foemen they withstood,
And, day and night, shone tapers bright,
And incense veiled the rood.
45
The warriors manned the walls without,
The monks prayed on within,
Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer
And valour fared to win,
Whispered a traitor, who stole out
And let the foemen in.
The monks prayed on within,
Till Satan, wroth to see how prayer
And valour fared to win,
Whispered a traitor, who stole out
And let the foemen in.
Then through the quiet church there ran
A sudden breath of fear;
The monks made haste to bar the door,
And hide the golden gear;
And to their lord once more they cried,
‘Hide, hide! the foe is here!’
A sudden breath of fear;
The monks made haste to bar the door,
And hide the golden gear;
And to their lord once more they cried,
‘Hide, hide! the foe is here!’
Through all the church's windows showed
The sudden laugh of flame;
Along the street went trampling feet,
And through the smoke there came
The voice of women, calling shrill
Upon the Saviour's name.
The sudden laugh of flame;
Along the street went trampling feet,
And through the smoke there came
The voice of women, calling shrill
Upon the Saviour's name.
And ‘Hide! oh, hide!’ the monks all cried,
‘Nor meet such foes as these!’
‘Be still,’ he said, ‘hide if ye will,
Live on, and take your ease!
By my Lord's death, my latest breath,
Like His, shall speak of peace!’
‘Nor meet such foes as these!’
‘Be still,’ he said, ‘hide if ye will,
Live on, and take your ease!
By my Lord's death, my latest breath,
Like His, shall speak of peace!’
He strode along the dusky aisle,
And flung the church doors wide;
Bright armour shone, and blazing homes
Lit up the world outside,
And in the streets reeled to and fro
A bloody human tide.
And flung the church doors wide;
Bright armour shone, and blazing homes
Lit up the world outside,
And in the streets reeled to and fro
A bloody human tide.
46
The mailed barbarians laughed aloud
To see the brave blood flow;
They trampled on the breast and hair
Of girls their swords laid low,
And on the points of reeking spears
Tossed babies to and fro.
To see the brave blood flow;
They trampled on the breast and hair
Of girls their swords laid low,
And on the points of reeking spears
Tossed babies to and fro.
Alphege stood forth; his pale face gleamed
Against the dark red tide.
‘Forbear, your cup of guilt is full!
Your sins are red,’ he cried;
‘Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom
The King of Heaven died!’
Against the dark red tide.
‘Forbear, your cup of guilt is full!
Your sins are red,’ he cried;
‘Spare these poor sheep, my lambs, for whom
The King of Heaven died!’
Drunken with blood and lust of fight,
Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane.
‘Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep
Before thy foolish fane!
Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep,
That thou mayst know their pain!’
Loud laughed Thorkill the Dane.
‘Stand thou and see us shear thy sheep
Before thy foolish fane!
Hear how they weep! They bleat, thy sheep,
That thou mayst know their pain!’
He stood, and saw his monks all slain;
The altar steps ran red;
In horrid heaps men lay about,
The dying with the dead;
And the east brightened, and the sky
Grew rosy overhead.
The altar steps ran red;
In horrid heaps men lay about,
The dying with the dead;
And the east brightened, and the sky
Grew rosy overhead.
Then from the church a tiny puff
Of smoke rose 'gainst the sky,
Out broke the fire, and flame on flame
Leaped palely out on high,
Till but the church's walls were left
For men to know it by.
Of smoke rose 'gainst the sky,
Out broke the fire, and flame on flame
Leaped palely out on high,
Till but the church's walls were left
For men to know it by.
47
And when the sweet sun laughed again
O'er fields and furrows brown,
The brave archbishop hid his eyes,
Until the tears dropped down
On the charred blackness of the wreck
Of Canterbury town.
O'er fields and furrows brown,
The brave archbishop hid his eyes,
Until the tears dropped down
On the charred blackness of the wreck
Of Canterbury town.
‘Now, Saxon shepherd, send a word
Unto thy timid sheep,
And bid them greaten up their hearts,
And to our feet dare creep,
And bring a ransom here which we,
Instead of thee, may keep.’
Unto thy timid sheep,
And bid them greaten up their hearts,
And to our feet dare creep,
And bring a ransom here which we,
Instead of thee, may keep.’
Archbishop Alphege stood alone,
Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed;
Loaded with chains, with aching heart,
And wounded in the side;
And in his hour of utmost pain
Thus to the Dane replied:
Bruised, beaten, weary-eyed;
Loaded with chains, with aching heart,
And wounded in the side;
And in his hour of utmost pain
Thus to the Dane replied:
‘Ye men of blood, my blood shall flow
Before this thing shall be;
If I be held till ransom come,
I never shall be free;
For by God's heart, God's poor shall never
Be robbed to ransom me!’
Before this thing shall be;
If I be held till ransom come,
I never shall be free;
For by God's heart, God's poor shall never
Be robbed to ransom me!’
They flung him in a dungeon dark,
They heaped on him fresh chains,
They promised him unnumbered ills
And unimagined pains;
But still he said, ‘No English shall
Be taxed to profit Danes!’
They heaped on him fresh chains,
They promised him unnumbered ills
And unimagined pains;
But still he said, ‘No English shall
Be taxed to profit Danes!’
48
The months passed by; no ransom came;
Their threats had almost ceased,
When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve,
A great and brutal feast;
And they sent and dragged the Christian man
Before the pagan beast.
Their threats had almost ceased,
When Thorkill held, on Easter-Eve,
A great and brutal feast;
And they sent and dragged the Christian man
Before the pagan beast.
Down the great hall, from east to west,
The long rough tables ran;
They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer,
And then the drink began—
At last in all that mighty hall
Was not one sober man.
The long rough tables ran;
They roasted oxen, sheep, and deer,
And then the drink began—
At last in all that mighty hall
Was not one sober man.
'Twas then they brought the bishop forth
Before the drunken throng;
And ‘Send for ransom!’ Thorkill cried,
‘You are weak, and we are strong,
Or, by the hand of Thor, you die—
We have borne with you too long!’
Before the drunken throng;
And ‘Send for ransom!’ Thorkill cried,
‘You are weak, and we are strong,
Or, by the hand of Thor, you die—
We have borne with you too long!’
The savage faces of the Danes
Leered redly all around;
The bones of beasts and empty cups
Lay heaped upon the ground,
And 'mid the crowd of howling wolves
The Christian saint stood bound.
Leered redly all around;
The bones of beasts and empty cups
Lay heaped upon the ground,
And 'mid the crowd of howling wolves
The Christian saint stood bound.
He looked in Thorkill's angry eyes
And knew what thing should be,
Then spake: ‘By God, who died to save
The poor, and me, and thee,
Thou art not strong enough—God's poor
Shall not be taxed for me!’
And knew what thing should be,
Then spake: ‘By God, who died to save
The poor, and me, and thee,
Thou art not strong enough—God's poor
Shall not be taxed for me!’
49
‘Gold! Give us gold, or die!’ All round
The rising tumult ran.
‘I give my life, I give God's word,
I give what gifts I can!
Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?
Find you some other man!’
The rising tumult ran.
‘I give my life, I give God's word,
I give what gifts I can!
Bleed Christian sheep for pagan wolves?
Find you some other man!’
And, as he spake, the whole crowd rose
With one fierce shout and yell;
They flung at him the bones of beasts,
They aimed right strong and well.
‘O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!’
The bishop cried—and fell.
With one fierce shout and yell;
They flung at him the bones of beasts,
They aimed right strong and well.
‘O Christ, O Shepherd, guard Thy sheep!’
The bishop cried—and fell.
And so men call him ‘Saint,’ yet some
Deemed this an unearned crown,
Since 'twas not for the Church or faith
He laid his brave life down;
But otherwise men deemed of it
In Canterbury town.
Deemed this an unearned crown,
Since 'twas not for the Church or faith
He laid his brave life down;
But otherwise men deemed of it
In Canterbury town.
‘Not for the Church he died,’ they said,
‘Yet he our saint shall be,
Since for Christ's poor he gave his life,
So for Christ's self died he.
“Who does it to the least of these,
Has done it unto Me!”’
‘Yet he our saint shall be,
Since for Christ's poor he gave his life,
So for Christ's self died he.
“Who does it to the least of these,
Has done it unto Me!”’
Old Age
Between the midnight and the morn
When wake the weary heart and head,
Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn
Keep tryst about my sleepless bed.
When wake the weary heart and head,
Troops of gray ghosts from lands forlorn
Keep tryst about my sleepless bed.
50
I hear their cold, thin voices say:
‘Your youth is dying; by-and-by
All that makes up your life to-day
Withered by age, will shrink and die!’
‘Your youth is dying; by-and-by
All that makes up your life to-day
Withered by age, will shrink and die!’
Will it be so? Will age slay all
The dreams of love and hope and faith—
Put out the sun beyond recall,
And lap us in a living death?
The dreams of love and hope and faith—
Put out the sun beyond recall,
And lap us in a living death?
Will hearts grown old forget their youth?
And hands grown old give up the strife?
Shall we accept as ordered truth
The dismal anarchy of life?
And hands grown old give up the strife?
Shall we accept as ordered truth
The dismal anarchy of life?
Better die now—at once be free
Of hope and fear—renounce the whole:
For of what worth would living be
Should one—grown old—outlive one's soul?
Of hope and fear—renounce the whole:
For of what worth would living be
Should one—grown old—outlive one's soul?
Yet see: through curtains closely drawn
Creeps in the exorcising light;
The sacred fingers of the dawn
Put all my troop of ghosts to flight.
Creeps in the exorcising light;
The sacred fingers of the dawn
Put all my troop of ghosts to flight.
And then I hear the brave Sun's voice,
Though still the skies are gray and dim:
‘Old age comes never—Oh, rejoice—
Except to those who beckon him.
Though still the skies are gray and dim:
‘Old age comes never—Oh, rejoice—
Except to those who beckon him.
‘All that youth's dreams are nourished by,
By that shall dreams in age be fed—
Thy noble dreams can never die
Until thyself shall wish them dead!’
By that shall dreams in age be fed—
Thy noble dreams can never die
Until thyself shall wish them dead!’
1890.
51
At the Year's End
Flushed with a crimson sunrise beauty,
The fair new year its promise gave;
Such dreams we had of love, of duty,
Of heights to scale, of foes to brave!
Oh, how hope's fire our future lighted—
How much to do, how much to know,
Yet on its brink we shrank affrighted
A year ago.
The fair new year its promise gave;
Such dreams we had of love, of duty,
Of heights to scale, of foes to brave!
Oh, how hope's fire our future lighted—
How much to do, how much to know,
Yet on its brink we shrank affrighted
A year ago.
And now the year is done—its pleasure
So brief, so bright—its hours of pain;
Some moments' memories we treasure,
Some recollections loathe in vain.
Oh, for a brain where could not waken
Remembrances of purpose crossed,
Of trusts abandoned, aims forsaken,
And chances lost!
So brief, so bright—its hours of pain;
Some moments' memories we treasure,
Some recollections loathe in vain.
Oh, for a brain where could not waken
Remembrances of purpose crossed,
Of trusts abandoned, aims forsaken,
And chances lost!
The changing seasons thrust upon us
Another year, fair-faced and new;
What evil have the old years done us
That this in its turn will not do?
This, too, will die, and leave us grieving
For all the ills its arms enfold—
For faiths betrayed, for friends deceiving,
And love grown cold.
Another year, fair-faced and new;
What evil have the old years done us
That this in its turn will not do?
This, too, will die, and leave us grieving
For all the ills its arms enfold—
For faiths betrayed, for friends deceiving,
And love grown cold.
We have been fooled. The hopes that fooled us—
We know them now—have been a lie;
The star that led, the light that ruled us—
We scorn them, and we pass them by.
Shut out hope's light; past is the season
When rose-red glow seemed good to see.
Look—by the cold white light of reason,
These things shall be:
We know them now—have been a lie;
The star that led, the light that ruled us—
We scorn them, and we pass them by.
52
When rose-red glow seemed good to see.
Look—by the cold white light of reason,
These things shall be:
A long, dim vista, blank and dreary—
The same hard failure, small success;
The same tired heart, the brain still weary
Of its intense self-consciousness;
The old despair, the old repining,
And, through the future's deepest night,
Down life's untrodden ways still shining,
The old hope's light!
The same hard failure, small success;
The same tired heart, the brain still weary
Of its intense self-consciousness;
The old despair, the old repining,
And, through the future's deepest night,
Down life's untrodden ways still shining,
The old hope's light!
A Choice
The flood of utter change is loosed. A space
Is ours yet, for its coming to prepare.
Shall we build dams with cautious, clumsy care,
Or stand with idle hands and frightened face,
And so be whirled all broken from our place,
Or perish with the dams we builded there?
Or shall we dig a broad, deep channel, where
Most fields may feel the flood's benign embrace?
Is ours yet, for its coming to prepare.
Shall we build dams with cautious, clumsy care,
Or stand with idle hands and frightened face,
And so be whirled all broken from our place,
Or perish with the dams we builded there?
Or shall we dig a broad, deep channel, where
Most fields may feel the flood's benign embrace?
Thus turned 'twill be a calm majestic flood
Of plenty, peace, and fertilising power,
Whose banks fresh flowers of love and joy shall deck.
Oppose it: at the inevitable hour,
Tumultuous, black with ruin, red with blood,
'Twill come—and you shall have no chance but wreck!
Of plenty, peace, and fertilising power,
Whose banks fresh flowers of love and joy shall deck.
Oppose it: at the inevitable hour,
Tumultuous, black with ruin, red with blood,
'Twill come—and you shall have no chance but wreck!
60
August
Leave me alone, for August's sleepy charm
Is on me, and I will not break the spell;
My head is on the mighty Mother's arm:
I will not ask if life goes ill or well.
There is no world!—I do not care to know
Whence aught has come, nor whither it shall go.
Is on me, and I will not break the spell;
My head is on the mighty Mother's arm:
I will not ask if life goes ill or well.
There is no world!—I do not care to know
Whence aught has come, nor whither it shall go.
I want to wander over pastures still,
Where sheared white sheep and mild-eyed cattle graze;
To climb the thymy, clover-covered hill,
To look down on the valley's hot blue haze;
And on the short brown turf for hours to lie
Gazing straight up into the clear, deep sky.
Where sheared white sheep and mild-eyed cattle graze;
To climb the thymy, clover-covered hill,
To look down on the valley's hot blue haze;
And on the short brown turf for hours to lie
Gazing straight up into the clear, deep sky.
I want to walk through crisp gold harvest fields,
Through meadows yellowed by the August heat;
To loiter through the cool dim wood, that yields
Such perfect flowers and quiet so complete—
The happy woods, where every bud and leaf
Is full of dreams as life is full of grief.
Through meadows yellowed by the August heat;
To loiter through the cool dim wood, that yields
Such perfect flowers and quiet so complete—
The happy woods, where every bud and leaf
Is full of dreams as life is full of grief.
I want to think no more of all the pain
That in the city thrives, a poison-flower—
The eternal loss, the never-coming gain,
The lifelong woe—the joy that lives an hour,
Bright, evanescent as the dew that dawn
Shows on this silent, wood-encircled lawn.
That in the city thrives, a poison-flower—
The eternal loss, the never-coming gain,
The lifelong woe—the joy that lives an hour,
Bright, evanescent as the dew that dawn
Shows on this silent, wood-encircled lawn.
I want to pull the honey-bud that twines
About the blackberries and gold-leaf sloes;
To part the boughs where the rare water shines,
Tread the soft bank whereby the bulrush grows—
I want to be no more myself, but be
Made one with all the beauty that I see.
About the blackberries and gold-leaf sloes;
To part the boughs where the rare water shines,
Tread the soft bank whereby the bulrush grows—
I want to be no more myself, but be
Made one with all the beauty that I see.
61
Oh, happy country, myriad voiced and dear,
I have no heart, no eyes, except for you;
Yours are the only voices I will hear,
Yours is the only bidding I will do:
You bid me be at peace, and let alone
That loud, rough world where peace is never known.
I have no heart, no eyes, except for you;
Yours are the only voices I will hear,
Yours is the only bidding I will do:
You bid me be at peace, and let alone
That loud, rough world where peace is never known.
Yet through your voices comes a sterner cry,
A voice I cannot silence if I would;
It mars the song the lark sings to the sky,
It breaks the changeful music of the wood.
‘Back to your post—a charge you have to keep—
Freedom is bleeding while her soldiers sleep.’
A voice I cannot silence if I would;
It mars the song the lark sings to the sky,
It breaks the changeful music of the wood.
‘Back to your post—a charge you have to keep—
Freedom is bleeding while her soldiers sleep.’
Oh, heart of mine I have to carry here,
Will you not let me rest a little while?—
A space 'mid doubtful fight and doubtful fear—
A little space to see the Mother's smile,
To stretch my hands out to her, and possess
No sense of aught but of her loveliness?
Will you not let me rest a little while?—
A space 'mid doubtful fight and doubtful fear—
A little space to see the Mother's smile,
To stretch my hands out to her, and possess
No sense of aught but of her loveliness?
Ah, just this power to feel how she is fair
Means just the power to see how foul life is.
How can I linger in the sacred air
And taste the pure wine of the dear sun's kiss
When in the outer dark my brothers moan,
Nor even guess the joys that I have known?
Means just the power to see how foul life is.
How can I linger in the sacred air
And taste the pure wine of the dear sun's kiss
When in the outer dark my brothers moan,
Nor even guess the joys that I have known?
Back the least soldier goes! To jar and fret,
To hope uncrowned—faith tried—love wounded sore—
To prayers that never have been answered yet,
To dreams that may be dreams for evermore;
To all that, after all, is far more dear
Than all the joys of all the changing year.
To hope uncrowned—faith tried—love wounded sore—
To prayers that never have been answered yet,
To dreams that may be dreams for evermore;
To all that, after all, is far more dear
Than all the joys of all the changing year.
1886
62
The Children
Spring!—almost summer! The winter's gone,
His reign is over, his hour is done!
Here's the crumpled green of the new-born leaves,
Here are baby-sparrows 'neath cottage eaves;
And the apple orchards are thick with bloom,
And the woods are gathering their summer gloom;
And the cottage gardens are gay and bright
With the wallflower brown and the rock-plant white;
And the heart of the risen year beats free
In meadow and forest, in flower and tree;
It beats in the prisoned hearts of men,
Till vaguely, vainly they long again
For the joy that is promised by every spring,
The joy no summer will ever bring.
And the children wander by field and brake,
And clap their hands for the daisies' sake.
His reign is over, his hour is done!
Here's the crumpled green of the new-born leaves,
Here are baby-sparrows 'neath cottage eaves;
And the apple orchards are thick with bloom,
And the woods are gathering their summer gloom;
And the cottage gardens are gay and bright
With the wallflower brown and the rock-plant white;
And the heart of the risen year beats free
In meadow and forest, in flower and tree;
It beats in the prisoned hearts of men,
Till vaguely, vainly they long again
For the joy that is promised by every spring,
The joy no summer will ever bring.
And the children wander by field and brake,
And clap their hands for the daisies' sake.
The bountiful summer laughs and throws
Her garment of green and her wreath of rose
On great vile cities that men have raised,
Where her name is unloved, unknown, unpraised,
And only gold is counted of worth
Of all the gifts of the goodly earth.
And in this desert that men have made
Grow white-faced children that never played
With daisies and cowslips, nor laughed and lay
On the hot gray heaps of the scented hay—
The poor pale children who never have heard
The perfect song of an uncaged bird:
They never have gathered a growing flower,
Or strayed through a wood for a truant hour—
They sit in groups and they seem to wait,
Unfriended and hopeless and desolate.
Do they wait for the hero who is to come
To teach them the meaning of love and home—
To take them away from the heavy frown
Of the high black walls and the cruel town,
To where there is light and a rest from noise,
And love for the children of men, and toys?
Her garment of green and her wreath of rose
On great vile cities that men have raised,
Where her name is unloved, unknown, unpraised,
And only gold is counted of worth
Of all the gifts of the goodly earth.
And in this desert that men have made
Grow white-faced children that never played
With daisies and cowslips, nor laughed and lay
On the hot gray heaps of the scented hay—
The poor pale children who never have heard
The perfect song of an uncaged bird:
They never have gathered a growing flower,
Or strayed through a wood for a truant hour—
They sit in groups and they seem to wait,
Unfriended and hopeless and desolate.
63
To teach them the meaning of love and home—
To take them away from the heavy frown
Of the high black walls and the cruel town,
To where there is light and a rest from noise,
And love for the children of men, and toys?
Who is to save them? Ah! I and you
Have the chance and the choice this fair deed to do.
Where Gold is god, there the children must
Be ground 'neath his wheels in the bloody dust;
But if Love be god—and a temple raised
Where gold shall be cursèd and love be praised—
When the temple is clean and the altar fair,
The children their garlands shall bring and bear
The first of all who shall gather there!
Have the chance and the choice this fair deed to do.
Where Gold is god, there the children must
Be ground 'neath his wheels in the bloody dust;
But if Love be god—and a temple raised
Where gold shall be cursèd and love be praised—
When the temple is clean and the altar fair,
The children their garlands shall bring and bear
The first of all who shall gather there!
A Word for the Future
When we sow the good seed of the present,
That the future will garner and gain,
For whom do we till, weed, and water,
For whom watch the sun and the rain,
With passionate faith that our waiting
And labour will not be in vain?
That the future will garner and gain,
For whom do we till, weed, and water,
For whom watch the sun and the rain,
With passionate faith that our waiting
And labour will not be in vain?
Not the men and the women about us—
Themselves but themselves can make free;
Not they, more than we, the full harvest
Of the seed we are sowing will see;
But the fruits will be reaped by the children—
The men and the women to be.
Themselves but themselves can make free;
Not they, more than we, the full harvest
Of the seed we are sowing will see;
But the fruits will be reaped by the children—
The men and the women to be.
64
O, the children!—the rose-leaf soft faces,
The sweet little voices, and mild,
The arms that have clung and caressed us,
The lips that have babbled and smiled,—
Have these blinded us so we discern not
That a child is not only a child?
The sweet little voices, and mild,
The arms that have clung and caressed us,
The lips that have babbled and smiled,—
Have these blinded us so we discern not
That a child is not only a child?
Not only a toy and a treasure
For mother's and father's delight,
Not only a flower want may wither,
Or lovelessness ruin and blight,
But a soul to be saved, in Truth's sunshine,
Or lost where Truth's absence makes night.
For mother's and father's delight,
Not only a flower want may wither,
Or lovelessness ruin and blight,
But a soul to be saved, in Truth's sunshine,
Or lost where Truth's absence makes night.
And the souls that shall shape the world's future
Are the souls we are shaping to-day!
Let the children have share in our justice,
Not just in our pity and play.
They will do the world's work, and our work is
To show them the work and the way.
Are the souls we are shaping to-day!
Let the children have share in our justice,
Not just in our pity and play.
They will do the world's work, and our work is
To show them the work and the way.
And he who is helping the children,
Who are frail as the buds of a rose,
Who is keeping the canker from blighting
The blossoms before they unclose,
And making the future sons hardy
To face all the future's fell foes,—
Who are frail as the buds of a rose,
Who is keeping the canker from blighting
The blossoms before they unclose,
And making the future sons hardy
To face all the future's fell foes,—
He is doing the world's work eternal
That the first dawn of soul saw begun;
He is hastening the hour when the children
The battles we lost will have won:
When the deeds that we did not, and could not,
Those small hands—grown strong—will have done.
That the first dawn of soul saw begun;
He is hastening the hour when the children
The battles we lost will have won:
When the deeds that we did not, and could not,
Those small hands—grown strong—will have done.
66
‘Until the Day Break ...’
When head and hands and heart alike are weary;
When Hope with folded wings sinks out of sight;
When all thy striving fails to disentangle
From out wrong's skein the golden threads of right;
When all thy knowledge seems a marsh-light's glimmer,
That only shows the blackness of the night;
When Hope with folded wings sinks out of sight;
When all thy striving fails to disentangle
From out wrong's skein the golden threads of right;
When all thy knowledge seems a marsh-light's glimmer,
That only shows the blackness of the night;
In the dark hour when victory seems hopeless,
Against thy lance when armies are arrayed,
When failure writes itself upon thy forehead,
By foes outnumbered and by friends betrayed;
Still stand thou fast, though faith be bruised and wounded,
Still face thy future, still be undismayed!
Against thy lance when armies are arrayed,
When failure writes itself upon thy forehead,
By foes outnumbered and by friends betrayed;
Still stand thou fast, though faith be bruised and wounded,
Still face thy future, still be undismayed!
68
While one true man speaks out against injustice,
While through men's chorused ‘Right!’ clear rings his ‘Wrong!’
Freedom still lives. One day she will reward him
Who trusted in her though she tarried long,
Who held her creed, was faithful till her coming,
Who, for her sake, strove, suffered, and was strong.
While through men's chorused ‘Right!’ clear rings his ‘Wrong!’
Freedom still lives. One day she will reward him
Who trusted in her though she tarried long,
Who held her creed, was faithful till her coming,
Who, for her sake, strove, suffered, and was strong.
She will bring crowns for those who love and serve her;
If thou canst live for her, be satisfied;
If thou canst die for her, rejoice! Our brothers
At least shall crown our graves and say, ‘These died
Believing in the sun when night was blackest,
And by our dawn their faith is justified!’
If thou canst live for her, be satisfied;
If thou canst die for her, rejoice! Our brothers
At least shall crown our graves and say, ‘These died
Believing in the sun when night was blackest,
And by our dawn their faith is justified!’
1900.
Knowledge
I
I saw a people trampled on, oppressed,
With helpless hands, and eyes of light afraid,
With aching shoulders whereon burdens laid
By day and night choked hope and murdered rest;
A people sordid, sad, unloved, unblessed,
Whose shroud by their own hands was ever made,
Whose never-ending toil was only paid
By death-in-life—or death, of life's gifts best.
With helpless hands, and eyes of light afraid,
With aching shoulders whereon burdens laid
By day and night choked hope and murdered rest;
A people sordid, sad, unloved, unblessed,
Whose shroud by their own hands was ever made,
Whose never-ending toil was only paid
By death-in-life—or death, of life's gifts best.
‘What help,’ I cried, ‘for these whose hands are weak—
Too weak to hold the weapons they should wield;
Too weak to grasp a helping hand, or seek
With armed battalions to dispute the field,
And on the oppressors just revenge to wreak?’
Then—as I cried—the helper was revealed.
Too weak to hold the weapons they should wield;
Too weak to grasp a helping hand, or seek
With armed battalions to dispute the field,
And on the oppressors just revenge to wreak?’
Then—as I cried—the helper was revealed.
69
II
I saw a woman, pure, and calm, and grand,
With strong broad brows, and eyes whose keen clear flame
Lit up men's hearts and showed them glory and shame,
And what things could, and what things could not stand,
Justice and Honour stood at her right hand;
And blazoned on her forehead was her name,
Too bright for me to read; and as she came
Men bowed and worshipped her through all the land.
With strong broad brows, and eyes whose keen clear flame
Lit up men's hearts and showed them glory and shame,
And what things could, and what things could not stand,
Justice and Honour stood at her right hand;
And blazoned on her forehead was her name,
Too bright for me to read; and as she came
Men bowed and worshipped her through all the land.
And evil could not live before her eyes,
And good rose up to answer to her call.
‘Who art thou,’ then I said, ‘that dost arise
Strong to redeem this people from their thrall?’
She answered me with tender voice and wise:
‘My name is Knowledge—and I conquer all!’
And good rose up to answer to her call.
‘Who art thou,’ then I said, ‘that dost arise
Strong to redeem this people from their thrall?’
She answered me with tender voice and wise:
‘My name is Knowledge—and I conquer all!’
A Star in the East
Like a fair flower springing fresh, sweet, and bright,
Through prison stones; or like one perfect song
Heard in a dream on one remembered night,
When waking worlds were dumb with grief and wrong;
Like the one kiss that links—first kiss and last—
The inevitable future spent apart
With the immutable divided past;
So in the east shines out this star of Art.
Through prison stones; or like one perfect song
Heard in a dream on one remembered night,
When waking worlds were dumb with grief and wrong;
Like the one kiss that links—first kiss and last—
The inevitable future spent apart
With the immutable divided past;
So in the east shines out this star of Art.
The narrow-shouldered, pale-faced girl and boy
Nestle against Art's new-found, love-warm breast,
And feel vague stirrings of a far-off joy,
Which life has never for themselves possessed.
And dimly guess at wonders hardly known
Even as dreams—and weep glad tears to see
A loveliness that is at once life's own,
And yet is something life can never be.
Nestle against Art's new-found, love-warm breast,
And feel vague stirrings of a far-off joy,
Which life has never for themselves possessed.
70
Even as dreams—and weep glad tears to see
A loveliness that is at once life's own,
And yet is something life can never be.
Not worse will work the flying busy hand
Because the soul has drunk a cup of pleasure,
Has picked up on its leaden-coloured strand
Some little jewel of Art's splendid treasure,
Nor will less work be done because men see
That work is not the only thing in life,
Because they have been glad at heart and free
A little space 'mid sorrow, sin, and strife.
Because the soul has drunk a cup of pleasure,
Has picked up on its leaden-coloured strand
Some little jewel of Art's splendid treasure,
Nor will less work be done because men see
That work is not the only thing in life,
Because they have been glad at heart and free
A little space 'mid sorrow, sin, and strife.
And this sweet draught may banish men's content?
For this we pray and strive—not all in vain—
That men may reach such heights of discontent
As never to fall back to peace again
Where no peace is—nor rest from strife and prayers,
But tread firm-footed up the thorny way,
Till all that spring of art and joy is theirs
Whereof they taste so small a draught to-day.
For this we pray and strive—not all in vain—
That men may reach such heights of discontent
As never to fall back to peace again
Where no peace is—nor rest from strife and prayers,
But tread firm-footed up the thorny way,
Till all that spring of art and joy is theirs
Whereof they taste so small a draught to-day.
To His Daughter
I bought you flowers on Ludgate Hill,
Dear violets in December,
And all the way to Charing Cross
They whispered of the rain-wet moss,
The budding briars, the April days,
The pageant of the woodland ways,
And all the pleasant plots and plays
That you and I remember.
Dear violets in December,
And all the way to Charing Cross
They whispered of the rain-wet moss,
The budding briars, the April days,
The pageant of the woodland ways,
And all the pleasant plots and plays
That you and I remember.
71
I met you on the platform chill
Where winter winds were snarling;
Your smile that lit that gloomy place
Lit up for me that other face
Of her who sold the violets—mean,
Poor, broken, desolate, unclean:
A ruined slave, who might have been
A Queen like you, my darling.
Where winter winds were snarling;
Your smile that lit that gloomy place
Lit up for me that other face
Of her who sold the violets—mean,
Poor, broken, desolate, unclean:
A ruined slave, who might have been
A Queen like you, my darling.
Spring
‘The spring is here!’ the primrose says;
The birds exult—‘The spring is here!’
A veil of buds, desired and dear,
Is thrown across the lengthening days.
The birds exult—‘The spring is here!’
A veil of buds, desired and dear,
Is thrown across the lengthening days.
The furrowed field that was so brown
Is faintly gray with wet green spears,
Which shall be fruitful wheaten ears,
The golden autumn's golden crown.
Is faintly gray with wet green spears,
Which shall be fruitful wheaten ears,
The golden autumn's golden crown.
The sticky chestnut-buds unfold,
The almond-blossom pinkly gleams;
The freshness of our childhood's dreams
Is on the moor, the wood, the wold.
The almond-blossom pinkly gleams;
The freshness of our childhood's dreams
Is on the moor, the wood, the wold.
The fat, blithe blackbirds on the lawn
Rejoice to see the grass grown green;
And starlings, where the thatched roofs lean,
Chatter in gray and windy dawn.
Rejoice to see the grass grown green;
And starlings, where the thatched roofs lean,
Chatter in gray and windy dawn.
72
And spring is here—but with the spring
Come bitter winds, and cold, cold showers:
Will these not slay the wakening flowers
And stay the buds from blossoming?
Come bitter winds, and cold, cold showers:
Will these not slay the wakening flowers
And stay the buds from blossoming?
No—in despite of wind and rain,
The year will add to flowers new flowers,
Till summer comes with burning hours,
And all the roses live again.
The year will add to flowers new flowers,
Till summer comes with burning hours,
And all the roses live again.
And we—no chill that time can bring,
No icy wind of worldly scorn,
Shall ever make our souls forlorn
Of this sweet promise of the spring!
No icy wind of worldly scorn,
Shall ever make our souls forlorn
Of this sweet promise of the spring!
No cold, nor rain, nor wind is strong
To slay Hope's seed our hearts within;
Freedom, we know, at last shall win,
Though Tyranny endures so long!
To slay Hope's seed our hearts within;
Freedom, we know, at last shall win,
Though Tyranny endures so long!
The Better Part
'Tis weary treading every day
The same dull, dreary, uphill way,
While the desired and the divine
So fair and far above us shine—
As unattainable as dear
To us who grope and stumble here.
The same dull, dreary, uphill way,
While the desired and the divine
So fair and far above us shine—
As unattainable as dear
To us who grope and stumble here.
73
'Tis hard to hold our flag on high,
And never faint, until we die—
To spread our banner on a wind
Scented with garlands left behind:
To give up all life's joy, that we
May humble banner-bearers be.
And never faint, until we die—
To spread our banner on a wind
Scented with garlands left behind:
To give up all life's joy, that we
May humble banner-bearers be.
'Tis hard to sing, in faith, of light
Through endless seeming hours of night—
To tune the harp, the voice upraise
For Freedom's sake, for Honour's praise—
To sing of good that is, not seems—
To sing of duties, not of dreams.
Through endless seeming hours of night—
To tune the harp, the voice upraise
For Freedom's sake, for Honour's praise—
To sing of good that is, not seems—
To sing of duties, not of dreams.
'Tis hard to fix one's sleepy eyes
On faint, faint streaks of new sunrise,
When all one's being yearns to weep
Its tiredness out, and turn to sleep:
Sleep and forget, and cease to care
If sunrise be, if darkness were.
On faint, faint streaks of new sunrise,
When all one's being yearns to weep
Its tiredness out, and turn to sleep:
Sleep and forget, and cease to care
If sunrise be, if darkness were.
'Tis weary fighting all one's life
In one long, bitter, desperate strife,
The hydra-headed, rampant wrong,
When one is fain of dance and song—
To smell the rose, and hear the fair
Soft wings of Pleasure in the air.
In one long, bitter, desperate strife,
The hydra-headed, rampant wrong,
When one is fain of dance and song—
To smell the rose, and hear the fair
Soft wings of Pleasure in the air.
Yet would we choose the weary way,
The fighting, not the feasting day—
To wear the armour, not the flowers,
To sing of Truth while voice is ours;
Because good fight's worst wounds are far
More dear than any pleasures are.
The fighting, not the feasting day—
To wear the armour, not the flowers,
To sing of Truth while voice is ours;
Because good fight's worst wounds are far
More dear than any pleasures are.
74
The Soul to the Ideal
I will not hear thy music sweet!
If I should listen, then I know
I should no more know friend from foe,
But follow thy capricious feet—
Thy wings, than mine so much more fleet—
I will not go!
If I should listen, then I know
I should no more know friend from foe,
But follow thy capricious feet—
Thy wings, than mine so much more fleet—
I will not go!
I will not go away! Away
From reeds and pool why should I go
To where sun burns, and hot winds blow?
Here sleeps cool twilight all the day;
Do I not love thy tune? No, no!
I will not say!
From reeds and pool why should I go
To where sun burns, and hot winds blow?
Here sleeps cool twilight all the day;
Do I not love thy tune? No, no!
I will not say!
I will not say I love thy tune;
I do not know if so it be;
It surely is enough for me
To know I love cool rest at noon,
Spread thy bright wings—ah, go—go soon!
I will not see!
I do not know if so it be;
It surely is enough for me
To know I love cool rest at noon,
Spread thy bright wings—ah, go—go soon!
I will not see!
I will not see thy gleaming wings,
I will not hear thy music clear.
It is not love I feel, but fear;
I love the song the marsh-frog sings,
But thine, which after-sorrow brings,
I will not hear!
I will not hear thy music clear.
It is not love I feel, but fear;
I love the song the marsh-frog sings,
But thine, which after-sorrow brings,
I will not hear!
77
Inasmuch as ye did it not . . .
If Christ should come to London,
Come to London to-day,
He would not go to the West End,
He would come down our way.
He'd talk with the children dancing
To the organ out in the street,
And say He was their big Brother,
And give them something to eat.
Come to London to-day,
He would not go to the West End,
He would come down our way.
He'd talk with the children dancing
To the organ out in the street,
And say He was their big Brother,
And give them something to eat.
He wouldn't go to the mansions
Where the charitable live,
He'd come to the tenement houses
Where we ain't got nothing to give;
He'd come so kind and so homely
And treat us to beer and bread,
And tell us how we ought to behave;
And we would mind what He said.
Where the charitable live,
He'd come to the tenement houses
Where we ain't got nothing to give;
He'd come so kind and so homely
And treat us to beer and bread,
And tell us how we ought to behave;
And we would mind what He said.
78
In the bright warm West End churches
They sing and preach and pray;
They call us ‘Belovèd Brethren!’
But they do not act that way.
And when He come to the church door,
He'd call out bold and free:
‘You stop that preaching and praying
And show what you've done for Me.’
They sing and preach and pray;
They call us ‘Belovèd Brethren!’
But they do not act that way.
And when He come to the church door,
He'd call out bold and free:
‘You stop that preaching and praying
And show what you've done for Me.’
Then they'd say ‘Oh Lord, we have given
To the poor both blankets and tracts,
And we've tried to make them sober,
And we've tried to teach them facts.
But they will sneak round to the drink-shop;
They pawn the blankets for beer;
And we find them very ungrateful,
But still we persevere.’
To the poor both blankets and tracts,
And we've tried to make them sober,
And we've tried to teach them facts.
But they will sneak round to the drink-shop;
They pawn the blankets for beer;
And we find them very ungrateful,
But still we persevere.’
Then He would say ‘I told you
The time I was here before
That you were all of you brothers,
All you, that I suffered for.
I won't go into your churches,
I'll stop in the sun outside;
You bring out the men, your brothers,
The men for whom I died!’
The time I was here before
That you were all of you brothers,
All you, that I suffered for.
I won't go into your churches,
I'll stop in the sun outside;
You bring out the men, your brothers,
The men for whom I died!’
Out of our lousy lodgings,
From arches and doorways about,
They'd have to do what He told them,
They'd have to call us out;
Millions and millions and millions,
Thick and crawling like flies,
We should creep out to the sunshine
And not be afraid of His eyes.
From arches and doorways about,
They'd have to do what He told them,
They'd have to call us out;
Millions and millions and millions,
Thick and crawling like flies,
We should creep out to the sunshine
And not be afraid of His eyes.
79
He'd see what God's image looks like,
When men have dealt with the same,
Wrinkled with work that is never done,
Swollen and dirty with shame;
He'd see on the children's foreheads
The branded gutter-sign,
That marks the girls to be harlots,
That dooms the boys to be swine.
When men have dealt with the same,
Wrinkled with work that is never done,
Swollen and dirty with shame;
He'd see on the children's foreheads
The branded gutter-sign,
That marks the girls to be harlots,
That dooms the boys to be swine.
Then He'd say ‘What's the good of your churches,
When these have nowhere to sleep?
How can I hear your praying
When they are cursing so deep?
I gave My blood and My body
That all should have bread and wine;
And you have taken your share,—and theirs—
Of these good gifts of Mine.’
When these have nowhere to sleep?
How can I hear your praying
When they are cursing so deep?
I gave My blood and My body
That all should have bread and wine;
And you have taken your share,—and theirs—
Of these good gifts of Mine.’
Then some of the rich would be sorry,
And all would be very scared,
And they'd say ‘But we never knew, Lord!’
And He'd say ‘Ye never cared!’
And some would be sick and shameful
Because they'd know that they knew,
But the best would say ‘We were wrong, Lord:
Tell us what we can do!’
And all would be very scared,
And they'd say ‘But we never knew, Lord!’
And He'd say ‘Ye never cared!’
And some would be sick and shameful
Because they'd know that they knew,
But the best would say ‘We were wrong, Lord:
Tell us what we can do!’
I think He'd be sitting, likely,
For some one 'ud bring Him a chair,
With a common kid cuddled up on His knee,
And the common sun on His hair;
And they'd be standing before Him,
And He'd say ‘You know, and you knew;
You ought to work for your brothers,
The same as I worked for you.
For some one 'ud bring Him a chair,
With a common kid cuddled up on His knee,
And the common sun on His hair;
And they'd be standing before Him,
And He'd say ‘You know, and you knew;
You ought to work for your brothers,
The same as I worked for you.
80
‘For, since you're all of you brothers,
It's clear as the blessed sun
That each must work for the others,
Not thousands work for one.
And the ones that have lived bone-idle,
If they want Me to hear them pray,
Let them go and work for their livings
The only honest way!
It's clear as the blessed sun
That each must work for the others,
Not thousands work for one.
And the ones that have lived bone-idle,
If they want Me to hear them pray,
Let them go and work for their livings
The only honest way!
‘I've got nothing new to tell you,
It's just what I always said;
But you've built their bones into churches
And stolen their wine and bread.
You, with My name on your forehead,
Liar and traitor, and knave,
You have lived on the death of your brothers,
These, whom I died to save!’
It's just what I always said;
But you've built their bones into churches
And stolen their wine and bread.
You, with My name on your forehead,
Liar and traitor, and knave,
You have lived on the death of your brothers,
These, whom I died to save!’
I wish He would come and say it—
Perhaps they'd believe it then,
And work like men for their livings
And let us work, like men.
Brothers? They'll never believe it,
The lie on their lips is red ...
They'll never believe till He comes again
Or till We rise from the dead!
Perhaps they'd believe it then,
And work like men for their livings
And let us work, like men.
Brothers? They'll never believe it,
The lie on their lips is red ...
They'll never believe till He comes again
Or till We rise from the dead!
| Ballads and Lyrics of Socialism: 1883-1908 | |