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7
CHORUS.
1
These pauper-kings, these tax-fed things,What say these murderous robber-kings?
To man with labour bow'd,
“Receive thy parish shroud!”
To woman, “Seek the homeless street,
Or prayerless grave, where four roads meet!”
To enterprise, “Be bold in vain!”
To failing strength, “Still toil for pain!”
To youth, “Thou shalt not hope!” to age, “Thou shalt not rest!”
To care-worn skill, “Thou shalt not thrive!” to genius, “Die, unbless'd!”
2
Cain! Cain! the murder'd and the justSpeak to their brother from the dust:
“Cain!” saith scath'd Hope, “restore
The smile that once I wore.”
“Replant,” saith Love, “my rose replant!”
“Reclothe my bones!” saith buried want;
Thy convicts cry, “Recal our youth!
Oh, bring us back its trust in truth!”
And all cry, “Uncreate the pangs thou yet may'st share,
In millions of yet living hearts, law-wedded to despair!”
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