Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

I will arise, and play a human part,
As one who feels he has a human place;
Where'er I find a sufferer on the mart,
Or at the mill, there is a brother's face;
Where'er outstretch'd for help I see one hand,
And the old earthly passions thrilling,
There is the post of honour, there I stand—
God willing.

I will arise, and strive to do some deeds
That may illumine some forgotten grave;
Where'er I note a woman's heart that bleeds,
There do I hail a sister I may save;
Where'er I meet the brave and better choice,
That takes the soldier's fiery drilling,
And flies from shame, I join a comrade's voice—
God willing.

I will arise, and gather up my arms,
The breath that burning is, the song that slays
Goliath evils, and unveils the charms
That are the light of all heroic days.
Where'er I hear the feeblest cry for aid,
From broken urns that life are spilling;
There, even to death, my duty's path is laid—
God willing.

I will arise, and hasten to the fight,
Which ever rages round the low and weak;
Unto the blind these eyes shall carry sight,
And for the dumb these loving lips shall speak.
If ever-drudging shoulders feebly droop
Beneath their burden, in the weary tilling;
Then be my joy with struggling frames to stoop—
God willing.

I will arise, and launch into the deep,
Tempestuous though it be, my tiny craft—
Yea, on the waves of woe that never sleep,
And all I ask is suffering for my draught.
Whene'er the winds are high, and billows beat
The foundering bark they fast are filling;
Then on the billows too shall be my seat—
God willing.

I will arise, and labour while I may,
And do the simple service that I can;
Let fools and cowards spend themselves in play,
I will not mock the dignity of man.
Though leaps the furnace with the hottest fire,
Which tortured souls is hourly killing;
There is my portion, there my chief desire—
God willing.

I will arise, and sow the living seed,
Which hath its soil in every humble mind
Till shine from barren care and stony need
The golden sheaves that angel-reapers bind.

The moments fleet, it is not ever day,
And breasts are bruisèd past our skilling;
Lost children miss me, and I cannot stay—
God willing.

I will arise, and choose that royal throne,
Which is the lowliest in a world of pain;
By the dark bed of those that weep alone,
And in the storm when timbers crack and strain.
I hunger for the weary forms, that fall
Fordone in iron moil and milling,
Babes that but for a cup of water call—
God willing.

I will arise, and be myself a part
Of all the grief that makes the stoutest bend;
I thirst for helpless pilgrims brave to start,
But impotent to reach their journey's end.
Earth was not meant for idle shame or show,
The drunkard's feast, the harlot's frilling.
The blasts that lash shall yet to victory blow—
God willing.

I will arise, I may not linger yet,
While men and women die around me thick;
While brothers do their brothers' wrongs forget,
And pulses that throb still are sad and sick;
While ghastly dens of toil send up their surge,
Black froth of sorrow that craves stilling;
And welcome to my back the bloody scourge—
God willing.

I will arise, for work is long and hard,
And time is but the passing of a breath;
While everywhere is sin, and sin is strong,
And hope seems hopeless in the face of death.
Albeit I know that love is mightier far,
Immortal life in deeds instilling;
And I would glorious make the scornèd scar—
God willing.

I will arise, to suffer is to be;
For every sigh that upward mounts is mine;
Yea, every stroke that harms descends on me,
And as my own at every pang I pine;
And all I have and am I only owe,
Unto the last poor crust and shilling;
My brothers cry—I will arise and go—
God willing.