 | Women must weep |  |
PROGRESS?
Boasted Progress, what art thou?
God, or devil from the pit,
Reeking of the grime and grit
Belch'd by mills, which myriad bow
To the wheels that cravens cow?
Curse, from which all beauties flit,
Tender grace and holy vow,
Giant work and flashing wit,
Which the worlds together knit?
Blood is on thy wrinkled brow,
Darkens flame we wonder how,
As by fires infernal lit.
God, or devil from the pit,
Reeking of the grime and grit
Belch'd by mills, which myriad bow
To the wheels that cravens cow?
Curse, from which all beauties flit,
Tender grace and holy vow,
Giant work and flashing wit,
Which the worlds together knit?
Blood is on thy wrinkled brow,
Darkens flame we wonder how,
As by fires infernal lit.
192
Boasted Progress, to the strong
Kindly, crushing down the weak,
If the vessel do but leak;
While preserving shame and wrong,
When they shout the victor-song,
In their worst and wildest freak;
With thy scornful scourging thong,
Driving serfs, who dare not speak,
From thy sad and sunless peak,
To the gulfs where thunders throng;
Ha! thy victims, cheated long,
Yet on thee revenge shall wreak.
Kindly, crushing down the weak,
If the vessel do but leak;
While preserving shame and wrong,
When they shout the victor-song,
In their worst and wildest freak;
With thy scornful scourging thong,
Driving serfs, who dare not speak,
From thy sad and sunless peak,
To the gulfs where thunders throng;
Ha! thy victims, cheated long,
Yet on thee revenge shall wreak.
Boasted Progress, with a knell
For each old and lovely shape,
Crown'd by thee with funeral crape,
Swamp'd by thy confounding swell,
Fallen as the dead leaves fell;
Sweeping bloom from purple grape,
From the flower its fragrant smell,
Leaving wounds that bleed and gape,
Until man return to ape;
Drifting whither none can tell,
Not to heaven—if not to hell,
On the rocks no crimes escape.
For each old and lovely shape,
Crown'd by thee with funeral crape,
Swamp'd by thy confounding swell,
Fallen as the dead leaves fell;
Sweeping bloom from purple grape,
From the flower its fragrant smell,
Leaving wounds that bleed and gape,
Until man return to ape;
Drifting whither none can tell,
Not to heaven—if not to hell,
On the rocks no crimes escape.
Boasted Progress, fattening still
On the hearts of holy men,
Bringing children forth, and then
Feeding on them at thy will,
Making evermore to kill
Wretches in thy butcher's pen;
Yet without one human thrill,
In thy workshop like a den—
Whether draining life or fen,
Heaping up the tomb or till,
Heedless of the good or ill—
If but onward be thy ken.
On the hearts of holy men,
Bringing children forth, and then
Feeding on them at thy will,
Making evermore to kill
Wretches in thy butcher's pen;
Yet without one human thrill,
In thy workshop like a den—
Whether draining life or fen,
Heaping up the tomb or till,
Heedless of the good or ill—
If but onward be thy ken.
193
Boasted Progress, what has lack
Gather'd from thy laws, that thrust
Individuals into dust?
High on revolution's wrack,
Scattering roses in its track,
Sanctifying every lust,
Until homes are hung in black;
Sway'd by every passing gust,
Which may swell the dotard's trust,
Thou art only travelling back
To thy womb—the sulphurous crack,
In the thin volcanic crust.
Gather'd from thy laws, that thrust
Individuals into dust?
High on revolution's wrack,
Scattering roses in its track,
Sanctifying every lust,
Until homes are hung in black;
Sway'd by every passing gust,
Which may swell the dotard's trust,
Thou art only travelling back
To thy womb—the sulphurous crack,
In the thin volcanic crust.
Boasted Progress, with thy whell
Grinding unto fool and knave,
For the dastard and the brave
Equal weight—while sufferers kneel
Vainly to those arms of steel;
If thy path destroy or save
Careless, so that some one feel
Something of the rolling wave—
So that man become thy slave,
Though the sad and helpless reel;
Ah! we know that iron heel
Marches over women's grave.
Grinding unto fool and knave,
For the dastard and the brave
Equal weight—while sufferers kneel
Vainly to those arms of steel;
If thy path destroy or save
Careless, so that some one feel
Something of the rolling wave—
So that man become thy slave,
Though the sad and helpless reel;
Ah! we know that iron heel
Marches over women's grave.
| Women must weep | |