My Lyrical Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

Let my Songs be cited
As breakers of the peace,
Till the Wrongs are righted;
The man-made miseries cease:
Till Earth's Disinherited
Beg no more to earn their bread;
Till the consuming darts of burning Day
Shall fire the midnight Foxes; scare away
From Labour's fruits the parasites of prey.
Let them die when all is done,
Now Victoriously begun!

Our Visions have not come to nought,
Who saw by Lightning in the night;
The deeds we Dreamed are being Wrought
By those who Work in clearer light;
In other ways our fight is fought,
And other forms fulfil our Thought
Made visible to all men's sight.

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THE PEOPLE'S ADVENT.

'Tis coming up the steep of Time,
And this old world is growing brighter!
We may not see its Dawn sublime,
Yet high hopes make the heart throb lighter!
Our dust may slumber under-ground
When it awakes the world in wonder;
But we have felt it gathering round!—
We have heard its voice of distant thunder!
'Tis Coming! yes, 'tis Coming!

'Tis coming now, that glorious time
Foretold by Seers and sung in story,
For which, when thinking was a crime,
Souls leaped to heaven from scaffolds gory!
They passed. But lo! the work they have wrought,
Now the crowned hopes of Centuries blossom!
The lightning of their living thought
Is flashing through us, brain and bosom:
'Tis Coming! yes, 'tis Coming!

Creeds, Empires, Systems, rot with age,
But the great People's ever youthful!
And it shall write the Future's page
To our Humanity more truthful;

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The gnarliest heart hath tender chords
To waken at the name of “Brother!”
'Tis coming when these scorpion-words
We shall not speak to sting each other.
'Tis Coming! yes, 'tis Coming!

Out of the light, you Priests, nor fling
Your dark, cold shadows on us longer!
Aside, thou world-wide curse, called King!
The people's step is quicker, stronger!
There's a Divinity within
That makes men great if they but will it;
God works with all who dare to win,
And the time cometh to reveal it.
'Tis Coming! yes, 'tis Coming!

Freedom! the Despots kill thy braves,
Yet in our memories live the sleepers;
And, though doomed millions feed the graves
Dug by death's fierce, red-handed Reapers,
The World will not forever bow
To things that mock God's own endeavour.
'Tis nearer than they wot of now,
When Flowers shall wreathe their Sword for ever!
'Tis Coming! yes, 'tis Coming!

Fraternity! Love's other name!
Dear, heaven-connecting link of being;
Then shall we grasp thy golden dream,
As souls, full-statured, grow far-seeing:
Thou shalt unfold our better part,
And in our life-cup yield more honey;
Light up with joy the Poor Man's heart,
And Love's own world with smiles more sunny!
'Tis Coming! yes, 'tis Coming!

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Aye, it must come! The Tyrants throne
Is crumbling, with our hot tears rusted;
The Sword earth's mighty have leant on
Is cankered, with our best blood crusted.
Room for the men of Mind! Make way
You Robber Rulers!—pause no longer!
You cannot stay the opening day!
The world rolls on, the light grows stronger—
The People's Advent's coming!

THE BATTLE-CALL.

You Serfs of England rouse ye from this dreaming!
A spirit stirs that never more shall sleep;
Look to the Future, lo! your Dayspring streaming
With a new life that makes the Nations leap.
The eyes of Rich and Poor flash wide with wonder!
The Robbers tremble in their loftiest tower,
Strange words roll o'er the world on wheels of thunder,
The leaves from Royalty's tree fall hour by hour,—
Earthquakes leap in the Temples, crumbling Throne and Power.

Vampires have drained humanity's best blood,
Kings robbed, and Priests have cursed us in God's name;
Out in the midnight of the Past we stood,
While these have darkly plied their devilish game.

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We have been worshipping the deadly Crown
Which drew Heaven's laugh in Lightnings on our head;
Chains fettered us who bowed abjectly down;
We deemed our Gods divine; but lo! instead—
They are but gilded clay,—'Tis morn! the glamour's fled!

Call ye this “merry England,”—once the place
Of souls self-deified and glory-crowned?
Where smiles made sunshine in the Peasant's face,
And Justice reigned—Her awful eyes closebound?
Where Toil with open brow went on light-hearted,
And twain in love Law never thrust apart?
How is the glory of our life departed
From us, who sit and nurse our bleeding smart;
And slink, afraid to break the laws that break the heart!

Hushed be the Herald on the walls of fame,
Vaunting this People as their Country's pride;
Weep rather, with your souls a-fire with shame:
See ye not how the flattering knaves deride
Us flattered fools? how priestcraft, strong and stealthy,
Stabbing at freedom through its veil of night,
Beguiles the poor to flush its coffers wealthy?
Hear how the land groans in the grip of Might,
Then quaff your cup of Wrongs, and laud a Briton's “Right.”

There's not a spot in all this dear green land,
Where Tyranny's cursed brand-mark is not seen:

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O! were it not for its all-blasting hand,
A very heaven below this might have been!
Has it not hunted forth our workers brave,—
Killed the red rose of health that crowned our daughters,
Wedded our living hopes unto the grave,—
Filled happy homes with strife, the world with slaughters,
And turned our thoughts to blood—to gall, the heart's sweet waters?

Where is the spirit of our stalwart Sires,
Who rose and wrung their Rights from Tyrannies olden?
Great Spirits have been here, for Freedom's fires
Live in their ashes, to earth's heart enfolden;
The mighty Dead lie slumbering around,—
Whose names thrill through us as Gods were in the air;
Life leaps from where their dust makes holy ground:
Their deeds spring forth in glory,—live all-where,—
But we are Traitors to the Trust they bade us bear.

Go forth, when Night is hushed, and heaven is clothèd
With stars that in God's presence smiling roll;
Feel the stirred spirit leap as 'twere betrothèd
To some eternal bridegroom of the soul;
Feel the hot tears start in the eyes upturning,
The tide of goodness heave its brightest waves,—
Then suddenly crush the grand and God-ward yearning

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With the sad thought that ye are bounden Slaves!
O! how long will ye make your hearts its living graves?

Immortal Liberty! we see thee stand
Like Morn just stepped from heaven upon a mountain
With beautiful feet, and blessing-laden hand,
And heart that welleth Love's most living fountain!
O! when wilt thou draw from the People's lyre
Joy's broken chord? and on the People's brow
Set Empire's crown? light up thy Altar-fire
Within their hearts, with an undying glow;
Nor give us blood for milk, as men are drunk with now?

Old Legends tell us of a Golden Age,
When earth was guiltless,—Gods the guests of men,
Ere sin had dimmed the heart's illumined page,—
And prophet-voices say 'twill come again.
O! happy age! when Love shall rule the heart,
And time to live shall be the poor man's dower,
When Martyrs bleed no more, nor Exiles smart,—
Mind is the only diadem of power.—
People, it ripens now! awake! and strike the hour.

Hearts, high and mighty, gather in our cause;
Bless, bless, O God, and crown their earnest labour,
Who dauntless fight to win us Equal Laws,
With mental armour, and with spirit-sabre!

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Bless, bless, O God! the proud intelligence,
That now is dawning on the People's forehead,—
Humanity springs from them like incense,
The Future bursts upon them, boundless—starried—
They weep repentant tears, that they so long have tarried.

THE EARTH FOR ALL.

Thus saith the Lord: You weary me
With prayers, and waste your own short years:
Eternal Truth you cannot see
Who weep, and shed your sight in tears!
In vain you wait and watch the skies,
No better fortune thus will fall;
Up from your knees I bid you rise,
And claim the Earth for All.

They ate up Earth, and promised you
The Heaven of an empty shell!
'Twas theirs to say; 'twas yours to do,
On pain of everlasting Hell!
They rob and leave you helplessly
For help of Heaven to cry and call:
Heaven did not make your misery;
The Earth was given for All!

Behold in bonds your Mother Earth;
The rich man's prostitute and slave!
Your Mother Earth, that gave you birth,
You only own her for a grave!

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And will you die like Slaves, and see
Your Mother left a fettered thrall?
Nay! live like Men and set her free
As Heritage for All!

THE LORDS OF LAND AND MONEY.

Lift up your faces from the sod;
Frown with each furrowed brow;
Gold apes a mightier power than God,
And wealth is worshipped now!
In all these toil-ennobled lands
You have no heritage;
They snatch the fruit of Youthful hands,
The staff from weary Age.
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money—
They shall not kill the Poor like Bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.

Through long dark years of blood and tears,
We've toiled like branded Slaves,
Till Wrong's red hand hath made a land
Of Paupers, Prisons, Graves!
But our long-sufferance endeth now;
Within the souls of men
The fruitful buds of promise blow,
And Freedom lives again!
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the Poor like Bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.

234

Too long have Labour's Nobles knelt
Before factitious “Rank”;
Within our souls the iron is felt—
In tune our fetters clank!
A glorious voice goes throbbing forth
From millions stirring now,
Who yet before these Gods of earth
Shall stand with lifted brow,
And tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the Poor like Bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.

THE AWAKENING.

How sweet is the fair face of Nature when May
With her rainbow earth-born and flower-woven hath spanned
Hill and dale; and the music of birds on the spray
Makes Earth seem a beautiful faëry land!
And dear is our First-love's young spirit-wed Bride,
With her meek eyes just sheathing in tender eclipse,
When the sound of our voice calls her heart's ruddy tide
Up in beauty to break on her cheek and her lips.
But Earth has no sight half so glorious to see,
As a People up-girding its might to be free.

235

To see men awake from the slumber of ages,
Their brows grim from labour, their hands hard and tan,
Start up living Heroes, long dreamt-of by Sages!
And smite with strong arm the Oppressors of man:
To see them come dauntless forth 'mid the world's warring,
Slaves of the midnight-mine! Serfs of the sod!
Show how the Eternal within them is stirring,
And never more bend to a crownèd clod:
Dear God! 'tis a sight for Immortals to see,—
A People up-girding its might to be free.

Battle on bravely, O sons of Humanity!
Dash down the Cup from your lips, O ye Toilers!
Too long hath the world bled for Tyrants' insanity—
Too long our weakness been strength to our Spoilers!
The heart that through danger and death will be dutiful;
Soul that with Cranmer in fire would shake hands,
And a life like a Palace-home built for the beautiful,
Freedom of all her belovèd demands—
And Earth has no sight half so glorious to see,
As a People up-girding its might to be free!

236

“ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.”

The brow of Morning smiles with her one star;
Lush-leafy Woods break into singing; Earth
From dewy dark rolls round her balmy side,
The floods of Dawn flow into a sea of day,
And all goes right and merrily with the World.

Spring with a tender beauty clothes the earth,
And makes her happy as the Bride of Heaven,
As though she knew no sorrow—held no grave:
No glory dims for all the hearts that break;
And all goes right and merrily with the World.

Birds sing as sweetly in the bowers of Spring;
Suns mount as regally their sapphire throne;
Stars set the gloom aglow, and harvests yield,
As though man nestled in the lap of Love;
All, all goes right and merrily with the World.

But slip your dainty mask aside and see
Hell open fathomless at your very feet!
The Poor are murdered body and soul; the Rich
In Pleasure's Goblet melt their pearl of life;
Ay, all goes right and merrily with the World.

Lean out into the looming Future, list
The battle roll across the night to come!
“See how we right our Wrongs at last,” Revenge
Writes with red radiance on the midnight heaven:
Yet all goes right and merrily with the world.

237

So Sodom, grim old Reveller! danced to her death.
Voluptuous Music throbb'd through all her Courts;
Mirth wantoned at her heart, one pulse before
The tongues of Fire told out her tale of wrongs—
And all went right and merrily with the World!

A CRY OF THE UNEMPLOYED.

'Tis hard to be a wanderer through this bright world of ours,
Beneath a sky of smiling blue, on fragrant paths of flowers,
With music in the woods, as there were nought but pleasure known,
Or Angels walked Earth's solitudes, and yet with want to groan:
To see no beauty in the stars, nor in Earth's welcome smile,
To wander cursed with misery! willing, but cannot toil.
With burning sickness at my heart, I sink down famishèd:
God of the Wretched, hear my prayer: I would that I were dead!

Heaven droppeth down with manna still in many a golden shower,
And feeds the leaves with fragrant breath, with silver dew the flower.
Honey and fruit for Bee and Bird, with bloom laughs out the tree,
And food for all God's happy things; but none gives food to me.

238

Earth, wearing plenty for a crown, smiles on my aching eye,
The purse-proud,—swathed in luxury,—disdainful pass me by:
I've willing hands, an eager heart—but may not work for bread!
God of the Wretched, hear my prayer: I would that I were dead!

Gold, art thou not a blessèd thing, a charm above all other,
To shut up hearts to Nature's cry, when brother pleads with brother?
Hast thou a music sweeter than the voice of loving-kindness?
No! curse thee, thou'rt a mist 'twixt God and men in outer blindness.
“Father, come back!” my Children cry; their voices, once so sweet,
Now pierce and quiver in my heart! I cannot, dare not meet
The looks that make the brain go mad, for dear ones asking bread—
God of the Wretched, hear my prayer: I would that I were dead!

Lord! what right have the poor to wed? Love's for the gilded great:
Are they not formed of nobler clay, who dine off golden plate?
'Tis the worst curse of Poverty to have a feeling heart:
Why can I not, with iron grasp, choke out the tender part?

239

I cannot slave in yon Bastille! I think 'twere bitterer pain,
To wear the Pauper's iron within, than drag the Convict's chain.
I'd work but cannot, starve I may, but will not beg for bread:
God of the Wretched, hear my prayer: I would that I were dead!

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVE.

Merry Christmas Eve in a Palace where knavery
Crowded all treasures that Workers surrender;
Where spirits grow rusted in silkenest slavery;
Life is out-panted in sloth and in splendour:
In gladness and glory Wealth's darlings were meeting,
And jewel-clasped fingers linked softly again;
New Friendships a-twining, and Old Friends a-greeting;
No thought of God's creatures that crouch in their pain!

Merry Christmas Eve in a Poor man's grim hovel,
There huddled in silence a famishing family;
Church-bells were chiming in musical revel,
Through Night's mask a-mocking with merry anomaly.
All in the happy time there they sat, mourning—
Two Sons—two Brothers—in penal chains bleeding;

240

Their hearts wandered forth to the never-returning,
Who rose on their vision, pale, haggard, and pleading.

Merry Christmas Eve! for the Rich there was music
And dancing, and Wine on Wine woo'd on the board;
O Falstaff! you prince of Lies! 'twould have made you sick,
To hear how they flattered a Mammonite Lord!
What matter, though hearts might be breaking without?
Their moans did not reach them where rang roof and rafter
With mirth that in face of the wretched will flout.
Ay, laugh on, ye callous, in Hell there is laughter!

Merry Christmas Eve! but the stricken ones heard
No neighbourly welcome, no kind voice of kin;
They looked at each other, but spake not a word,
While through crevice, and cranny, the sleet drifted in.
In a desolate corner, one, hunger-killed, lay,
And the Mother's hot tears were a bosom-babe's food.
What marvel, O Statesmen, what marvel, I pray,
Such misery nurseth Crime's viperous brood?

O men, Angel-imaged in Nature's fair mint,
Is it for this, ye were fashioned divine?
Ah, where's the God-stamp—Immortality's print?
We are Tyrants and Slaves, knit in one tortured twine:

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That a few, like to gods, may stride over the earth,
Millions are murdered, or given in pawn;
When will the world quicken for Liberty's birth,
Which she waiteth, with eager wings beating the dawn?

False Priests, dare ye say 'tis the will of your God,
These things should be done 'neath His sheltering sky?
That millions of Paupers should bow to the sod?
Up, up, trampled hearts, it's a Lie! it's a Lie!
They may carve “State” and “Altar” in characters golden,
But Tyranny's symbols are ceasing to win;
Be stirring, O people, your Flag is unfolden,
And brave be the battles you blazon therein.

OUR FATHERS ARE PRAYING FOR PAUPER-PAY.

Smitten stones will talk with fiery tongues,
And the worm, when trodden, will turn;
But, Cowards, ye cringe to the cruellest wrongs,
And answer with never a spurn.
Then torture, O Tyrants, the spiritless drove,
Old England's Helots will bear:
There's no hell in their hatred, no God in their love,
No shame in their deepest despair.
For our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay,
Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white;
Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day,
And our Daughters his Slaves by night.

242

The Tearless are drunk with our tears: have they driven
The God of the poor man mad?
For we weary of waiting the help of Heaven,
And the battle goes still with the bad.
O but death for death, and life for life,
It were better to take and give,
With hand to throat, and with knife to knife,
Than die out as thousands live!
Our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay,
Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white;
Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day,
And our Daughters his Slaves by night.

Fearless and few were the Heroes of old,
Who played the peerless part:
We are fifty-fold, but the gangrene Gold
Is eating out England's heart.
With their faces to danger, like Freemen they fought,
With their daring, all heart and hand:
And the thunder-deed followed the lightning-thought,
When they stood for their own good land.
Our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay,
Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white;
Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day,
And our Daughters his Slaves by night.

When the heart of one half the world doth beat
Akin to the brave and the true,
And the tramp of Democracy's earth-quaking feet
Goes thrilling the wide world through,—

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We should not be crouching in darkness and dust,
And dying like slaves in the night;
But big with the might of the inward “must,”
We should battle for Freedom and Right!
Our Fathers are praying for the Pauper-pay,
Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white;
Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day,
And our Daughters his Slaves by night.

What do we lack, that the Ruffian Wrong
Should starve us 'mid heaps of gold?
We have brains as broad, we have arms as strong
As our Captors, if only as bold!
Will a thousand years more of meek suffering school
Your lives to a sterner bravery?
No! down and down with their Robber Rule,
And up from the land of slavery!
Our Fathers are praying for Pauper-pay,
Our Mothers with Death's kiss are white;
Our Sons are the rich man's Serfs by day,
And our Daughters his Slaves by night.

ANATHEMA MARANATHA.

Deeper and deeper the Despot's lash flayeth,
Swifter and swifter fierce Misery slayeth;
Tighter and tighter the grip of Toil groweth,
Nigher and nigher the dark Ruin floweth.
And still ye bear on, and ye faint heart and breath,
Till ye creep, scourgèd hounds, to your kennel of death:

244

O down to the dust with ye, Cowards and Slaves,
Plague-stricken Cumber-grounds, slink to your graves!

Love is the Crown of all life, but ye wear it not;
Freedom, Humanity's palm, and ye bear it not;
Beauty spreads banquet for all, but ye share it not;
Grimmer the blinding veil glooms, and ye tear it not.
Weaving your life-flowers in Wealth's robe of glory,
Ye stint in your starkness with youth smitten hoary!
O down to the dust with ye, Cowards and Slaves,
Plague-stricken Cumber-grounds, slink to your graves!

They have broken your hearts for their hunger, and trod
The wine-press for Death, with our fruitage of God;
And ye lick their feet, red with your blood, like dumb cattle!
Far better, far braver to meet them in battle!
The bow that Tell drew hath lost none of its spring,
Did ye nerve with your daring the arrow and string:
O down to the dust with ye, Cowards and Slaves,
Plague-stricken Cumber-grounds, slink to your graves!

There's a curse on the Mammonites fiery and fell,
Their hearts are as hard as the Millstones of Hell;

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And there's wringing of hands with the Knave and the Tyrant,
For God's graven Autograph's on their death-warrant.
The people arise face to face with their Foes:
Up now! while before us the Fire-Pillar glows!
Or down to the dust with ye, Cowards and Slaves,
Down, down for ever, and rot in your graves!

A CRY OF THE PEOPLE.

Tossing in torture, the weary World turneth,
To clutch Freedom's robe round her slavery's starkness:
With shame and with shudder, poor Mother! she yearneth
O'er wrongs that are done in her dearth and her darkness.
O gather thy strength up, and crush the Abhorrèd,
Who murder thy poor heart, and drain thy life-springs,
And are crowned but to hide the Cain-brand on their forehead:
Let these be the Last of the Queens and the Kings!

By the Lovers and Friends we have tenderly cherished,
Who made the Cause soar up like flame at their breath;
Who struggled like Gods met in fight, or have perished
In Poverty's battle, with grim daily death:

246

By all the dear ones that bitterly plead for us—
Life-flowers tied up in the heart's breaking strings—
Sisters that weep for us—Mothers that bleed for us—
Let these be Last of the Queens and the Kings!

Sun and Rain kindle greenly the graves of our Martyrs,
Ye might not tell where the red blood ran like rain!
But there it burns ever! and heaven's weeping waters
And bleaching suns never can whiten the stain!
Remember the hurtling the Tyrants have wrought us,
And smite till each helm on head flashes and rings!
Life for life, blood for blood, is the lesson they've taught us,
And be these the Last of the Queens and the Kings!

Ho! weary Night-watch, is there light on the summit?
Sentinel through the dark, say, is there hope?
For deeper in gloom than the fathom of plummet,
Our Bark through the tempest doth stagger and grope!
“To God's Unforgiven, to Caitiff and Craven—
To Crown and to Sceptre, a cleaving curse clings:
Ye must fling them from deck, would ye steer into Haven,
For Death tracks the Last of the Queens and the Kings!”

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PRESS ON.

Press on, press on, ye Rulers, in the roused world's forward track:
It moves too sure for you to put the dial of Freedom back!
We're gathering up from near and far, with souls in fiery glow,
And Right doth bare its arm of might to bring the Spoilers low.
Kings, Priests, ye're far too costly, and we weary of your rule;
We crown no more “Divinity,” where Nature writeth “Fool!”
Ye must not bar our glorious path as in the days agone;
We know that God made Men, but men made Kings and Priests—Press on!

Press on, press on, ah! “Nobles!” you have played a daring game;
Now falls your star of luck, now fades the prestige of your name:
Too long have you been fed and nursed on human blood and tears;
The naked truth is known, and Labour leaps to life, and swears
His pride of strength to bloated Ease he will no longer give:
For all who live should labour, “Lords,” then all who work might live!

248

The combat comes! make much of what you've wrung from Fatherland!
Press on, press on! To-day we plead, To-morrow we command.

Press on! a million pauper-brows bend down in Misery's dust;
God's champions of eternal Truth still eat the mouldy crust:
This damning curse of Tyrants must not kill the nation's heart;
The spirit in a million Slaves doth pant, on fire to start
And strive to mend the world, and join the Nation's march sublime;
While myriads sink heart-broken, and the land o'er-swarms with crime.
“O God!” they cry, “we die, we die, and see no earnest won!”
Brothers, join hand and heart, and in the work press on, press on!

THEY ARE BUT GIANTS WHILE WE KNEEL.

Good People! put no faith in Kings, nor in your Princes trust,
Who break your hearts for bread, and grind your faces in the dust:
The Palace-Paupers look from lattice high, and mock your prayer:
The Champions of the Christ are dumb, or golden bit they wear.

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O but to see ye bend no more to earth's crime-cursèd things:
Be ye God's Oracles: stand forth, as Nature's Priests and Kings!
Ye fight and bleed, while Fortune's darlings slink in splendid lair,
With lives that crawl, like worms through buried Beauty's golden hair!—
A tale of lives wrung out in tears their Grandeur's garb reveals,
And the last sobs of breaking hearts sound in their Chariot-wheels!
O league ye—crush the things that kill all love and liberty!
They are but Giants while we kneel: one leap, and up go We.

Trust not the Priests, whose tears are lies, and hearts are hard and cold;
Who lead ye to sweet pastures, where they fleece the foolish fold!
The Church and State are linked and sworn to desolate the land:
Good people, 'twixt these Foxes' tails, We'll fling a fiery brand.
Up, if ye will be free, to Golden Calves no longer bow:
The Nations yearn for Liberty—the world grows earnest now.
Your bent-knee is half-way to hell!—Up, Serviles, from the dust!
The Harvest of the free red-ripens for the sickle-thrust.

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They're quaking now, and shaking now, who wrought the hurtling sorrow,
To-day the Desolators, but the Desolate To-morrow!
Loud o'er their murder's menace wakes the watch-word of the Free:
They are but Giants while we kneel: one leap, and up go We!

Some bravest patriot-hearts have gone, to break beyond the Sea,
And many in the Dungeon have died for you and me!
And still we glut the Merciless—give all Life's glory up,
That stars of flame, and winking eyes, may crown their revel-cup.
Back, tramplers on the Many! Death and Danger ambushed lie;
Beware ye, or the blood may run! the patient people cry:
“Ah! shut not out the light of hope, or we may blindly dash,
Like Samson with his strong death-grope, and whelm ye in the crash.
Think how they spurred the People mad, that old Régime of France,
Whose heads, like poppies, from Death's Scythe fell in a bloody dance.”
Ye plead in vain, ye bleed in vain, O Blind! when will ye see
They are but Giants while we kneel? One leap, and up go We.

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The merry flowers are springing from our last-year Martyrs' mould,
As if their dreams had blossomed telling what they would have told,
Of our unfettered Future: and what this earth shall be
When we have bartered blows and bonds for life and liberty.
Ah! what a face of glory shall the weary world put on,
When Love is crownèd, and shall rule the heart, its royal throne!
O we shall see our darlings smile,—who meet us tearful now,—
Ere the Eternal morn breaks gray, on the Beloved's brow:
And pride, not shame, shall flush the face of our heart-nestling Dove,
And Love shall give the kiss of Death no more to those we love.
Wake, Titans, scale th' Olympus where the hindering Tyrants be:
They are but Giants while we kneel: one leap, and up go We!

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SONG OF THE RED REPUBLICAN.

Fling out the red Banner! its fiery front under,
Come, gather ye, gather ye, Champions of Right!
And roll round the world, with the voice of God's thunder,
The Wrongs we've to reckon, Oppressions to smite.
They deem that we strike no more like the old Hero-band,
Victory's own battle-hearted and brave:
Once more brothers mine, it were sweet but to see ye stand,
Triumph or Tomb welcome, Glory or Grave!

Fling out the red Banner! in mountain and valley
Let Earth feel the tread of the Free once again;
Now soldiers of Liberty make on more rally,
Old Earth yearns to know that her children are Men.
We are nerved by a thousand wrongs, burning and bleeding;
Bold Thoughts leap to birth, but the bold Deeds must come;
And wherever Humanity's yearning and pleading,
One battle for Liberty strike we heart-home.

Fling out the red Banner! achievements immortal
Have yet to be won by the hands labour-brown;
Though few of us enter the proud promise-portal,
Yet wear it in thought like a glorious Crown!

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O joy of the onset! sound trumpet! array us;
True hearts would leap up were all hell in our path;
Up, up from the Slave-land; who stirreth to stay us,
Shall fall, as of old, in a Red Sea of wrath.

Fling out the red Banner, O Sons of the morning!
Young spirits awaiting to burst into wings,—
We stand shadow-crowned, but sublime is the warning,
All heaven's grimly hushed, and the Bird of Storm sings!
“All's well,” saith the Sentry on Tyranny's tower,
While Hope by his watch-fire is gray and tear-blind;
Ay all's well! Freedom's Altar burns, hour by hour,
Live brands for the fire-damp with which ye are mined.

Fling out the red Banner! the Patriots perish,
But where their bones whiten the seed striketh root:
Their blood hath run red the great harvest to cherish:
Now gather ye, Reapers, and garner the fruit.
Victory! victory! Tyrants are quaking!
The Titan of Toil from the bloody thrall starts;
The Slaves are awaking, the dawn-light is breaking,
The foot-fall of Freedom beats quick at our hearts!

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AFTER THE STRUGGLE.

Like leaves from Autumn's bough, Old Friend,
Our ripest hopes depart;
There's little left us now, Old Friend,
To cheer the Patriot's heart.
The Altars where we knelt, Old Friend,
Grow desolate and cold;
The faith is faint they felt, Old Friend,
In valiant days of old.

In bloody shrouds they sleep, Old Friend,
Who could not live as slaves:
The living only weep, Old Friend,
Above their Martyrs' graves!
Freedom hath many a wound, Old Friend,
And, ringed by hounds of hell,
She wraps her purple round, Old Friend,
To fall as Cæsar fell.

The men of blood prevail, Old Friend,
And, stricken in the night,
The people's weeping wail, Old Friend,
Goes praying for the light.
And yet their day shall come, Old Friend,
Though we may never hear
The shouts of Harvest-home, Old Friend,
Nor see the golden year.

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OUR MARTYRS.

They are gone!
When Hope's blossoms, many-numbered,
Into flower burst;
When on earthquake-edge they slumbered,
Who have Man accursed;
When our hearts, like throbbing drums,
Beat for Freedom; sang “She comes!”
There they stumbled 'mong the tombs.

They are gone!
Freedom's strong ones, young and hoary,
Beautiful in faith!
And her first dawn-blush of glory
Gilds their camp of death!
There they lie in shrouds of blood;
Murdered, where for Right they stood—
Martyrs murdered doing good.

They are gone!
Yet 'tis well to die up-giving
Valour's vengeful breath,
To make Heroes of the living,—
Thus divine is death.
One by one, true hearts! you left us!
Yet Hope hath not all bereft us:
Still we man the gap you cleft us!

They are here!
In the silent tears that start
Thinking of their loss;
In the Ætna of each heart,
Where flames of Vengeance toss!

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They are with us, they are here,
Smiling in the flash o' the tear,
Happy when we know they are near!

They are here!
Here, where life ran ruddy rain,
When power from God seemed wrenched;
Here, where tears fell—molten brain!
And hands were agony-clenched!
Lift the veil and look! Ah! now
There's a glory, where the glow
Of their fire-crown seamed each brow.

They are here!
With us in the march of time;
With us side by side!
Let us live their lives sublime,
Die as they have died!
Wait: these Martyrs yet shall come,
Myriad-fold from out their tomb!
In the Despots' day of doom.

THE MEN OF 'FORTY-EIGHT.

They rose in Freedom's rare sunrise,
Like Giants roused from wine;
And in their hearts and in their eyes
The God leaped up divine!
Their souls flashed out, naked as swords
Unsheathed for fiery fate!
Strength went like battle with their words—
The men of 'Forty-eight.
Hurrah!
For the men of 'Forty-eight.

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The Kings have got their Crown again,
And blood-red revel cup;
They've bound the Titan down again,
And heaped his grave-mound up!
But still he lives, though buried 'neath
The mountain,—lies in wait,
Heart-stifled heaves and tries to breathe
The breath of 'Forty-eight.
Hurrah!
For the men of 'Forty-eight.

Dark days have fallen, yet in the strife
We bate no hope sublime,
And bravely works the exultant life,
Their hearts pulsed through the time:
As grass is greenest trodden down,
Their suffering makes men great,
And this dark tide shall richly crown
The work of 'Forty-Eight.
Hurrah!
For the men of 'Forty-eight.

Some in a bloody burial sleep,
Like Greeks to glory gone,
But in their steps avengers leap
With their proof-armour on:
And hearts beat high with dauntless trust
To triumph soon or late,
Though they be mouldering down in dust—
The Men of 'Forty-eight!
Hurrah!
For the Men of 'Forty-eight.

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O when the World wakes up to worst
The Tyrants once again,
And Freedom's summons-shout shall burst,
Rare music! on the brain,—
Old Truehearts still, in many a land,
Ye'll find them all elate—
Brave remnant of that Spartan-band,
The Men of 'Forty-eight.
Hurrah!
For the Men of 'Forty-eight.

A WELCOME.

Ho! Patriots of Old England, wake!
And join ye heart and hand,
To welcome him for Freedom's sake
To our dear Fatherland!
He needs no proud Triumphal Arch,
Nor Banners on the wind:
In hearts that beat his triumph-march,
Kossuth is fitly shrined!
We meet him here, we greet him here—
With Love's wide arms caress him!
Kings would have no such welcome cheer,
As Kossuth hath: God bless him.

He rose like Freedom's Morning star,
Where all was darkling, dim;
We saw his glory from afar,
And fought in soul for him!

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Brave Victor! how his radiant brow
Kinged Freedom's host like Saul!
And in his Crown of Sorrow now
He's royallest heart of all.
We meet him here, we greet him here—
With Love's wide arms caress him!
Kings would have no such welcome cheer,
As Kossuth hath: God bless him.

Ay, English hearts through proud tears gush
With glory at his name,
Whose brave deeds made the roused blood rush
Along our veins like flame:
We cheered him through his hero-strife
And, in his presence met,
Will show the world that patriot life
Lives in Old England yet!
We meet him here, we greet him here—
With Love's wide arms caress him!
Kings would have no such welcome cheer,
As Kossuth hath: God bless him.

He cometh dim with glorious dust,
From out his wrestling-ring:
But, blessings—praises—deathless trust—
Like armies round him cling!
His Hungary billows o'er with graves
Of Martyrs not in vain;
A rising ripening harvest waves
Its fruit of that red rain!
We meet him here, we greet him here—
With Love's wide arms caress him!
Kings would have no such welcome cheer,
As Kossuth hath: God bless him.

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Freedom will run her radiant round,
Though clouds shut out the sky;
O may his country's heart yet bound
To Kossuth's conquering cry;
And once again the Hapsburgh Star
His flaming Sword make dim;
And palsy strike the arm that dare
Not strike a blow for him!
We meet him here, we greet him here—
With Love's wide arms caress him!
Kings would have no such welcome cheer,
As Kossuth hath: God bless him.

Ring out, exult, and clap your hands,
Free Men and Women brave;
Shout, Britain! shake the startled lands,
And free the bounden Slave!
Come forth, make merry in the sun,
And give him welcome due;
Heroic deeds have crowned him one
Of Earth's Immortal few!
We meet him here, we greet him here—
With Love's wide arms caress him!
Kings would have no such welcome cheer,
As Kossuth hath: God bless him.

THE EXILE.

Ay, Tyrants, build your Babels! forge your fetters! link your chains!
As brims your guilt-cup fuller, ours of grief ebbs to the drains;

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Still, on the Cross, your crowns of thorn for Freedom's Martyrs twine;
Still batten on live hearts and madden o'er the hot blood-wine.
Murder men sleeping, or awake torture them dumb with pain,
And tear, with hands all bloody red, the vesture of the slain!
Your feet are on us, Tyrants—strike! and hush Earth's wail of sorrow:
Your sword of power, so red to-day, shall kiss the dust to-morrow.
O! but 'twill be a merry day the world shall set apart,
When Strife's last brand is broken in the last crowned Despot's heart!
And it shall come,—despite of Rifle, Rope, and Rack, and Scaffold,
Once more we lift undaunted brows, and battle on unbaffled.

Our hopes ran mountains high, we sang at heart, wept tears of gladness,
When France, the bravely beautiful, dashed down her sceptred madness;
And Hungary her one-hearted race of mighty heroes hurled
In the death-gap of nations, as a bulwark for the world.
O Hungary! gallant Hungary! very glorious wert thou,
That rose up with the beauty of the morning on thy brow.

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And Rome,—who, while her heroes bled, felt her old breast heave higher,—
How her eyes reddened with the flash of all their Roman fire!
Mothers of Children, who shall live the Gods of future story,
Your blood shall blossom from the dust, and crown the world with glory.
Ye'll tread them down yet, Curse and Crown! uplift the trodden Slave,
And Freedom shall be sovran in the courts of Fool and Knave.

Wail for the hopes that have gone down! the life so freely spilt!
Th' Eternal Murder still sits throned and crowned in damning guilt:
Still in God's golden sun the Tyrant's bloody banners burn,
The Priests,—Hell's midnight Thugs!—to their soul-strangling work return!
See how the Oppressors of the Poor with serpents hunt their blood;
Hear, from the dark, the groan and curse go maddening up to God.
They kill and trample us poor worms, till earth is dead men's dust;
Death's red tooth daily drains our hearts, but end, ay, end it must.
The herald of deliverance leaps in the womb of Time;
The Poor's grand army treads the Age's march with step sublime.

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Ours is the mighty future! and what marvel, brother men,
Should the devoured of ages rise and turn devourers then?

O! brothers of the horny hand see through your tears and smile,
The World is rife with sound of fetters snapping 'neath the file;
I lay my hand on England's heart, and in each life-throb mark,
The pealing thought of freedom ring its Tocsin in the dark.
I see the Toiler hath become another Gospel's Preacher,
And, as he wins a crust, stands proudly forth, the true world-teacher;
He still toils on, but, Tyrants, 'tis a mighty thing when Slaves,
Who delve their lives into their work, know that they dig your graves!
Anarchs! your doom comes swiftly! brave and eager spirits climb,
To ring Oppression's death-knell from the old watch-towers of time;
A spirit of resistless might is stirring at this hour,
And thought is burning in men's eyes with more than speechful power.

Old England cease the mummer's part! wake, Starveling, Serf, and Slave!
Rouse in the majesty of wrong, as kindred of the brave!

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Speak, and the world shall answer, with her voices myriad-fold,
And men, like Gods, shall grapple with the giant-wrongs of old.
Now, Mothers of the people, give your babes heroic milk;
Sires, soul your sons for daring deeds, no more soft thews of silk;
Great spirits of the mighty dead take shape, and walk our mind,
Their glory smites our upward look, we seem no longer blind;
They tell us how they broke their bonds, and whisper, “So may ye:”
One sharp, stern struggle, and the Slaves of centuries are free!
The people's heart, with pulse like cannon, panteth for the fray,
And Brothers, dead or living, we'll be with you in that day.

IT WILL END IN THE RIGHT.

Never despair! O, my Comrades in sorrow!
I know that our mourning is ended not. Yet,
Shall the vanquished to-day be the Victors tomorrow,
Our Star shall shine on in the Tyrant's Sunset.
Hold on! though they spurn thee, for whom thou art living
A life only cheered by the lamp of its love:

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Hold on! Freedom's hope to the bounden ones giving:
Green spots in the waste wait the worn spirit-dove.
Hold on,—still hold on,—in the world's despite,
Nurse the faith in thy heart, keep the lamp of Truth bright,
And, my life for thine! it shall end in the Right.

What, though the Martyrs and Prophets have perished!
The Angel of Life rolls the stone from their graves:
Immortal's the faith, and the freedom they cherished,
Their lone Triumph-cry stirs the spirits of slaves!
They are gone,—but a Glory is left in our life,
Like the day-god's last kiss on the darkness of Even—
Gone down on the desolate seas of their strife,
To climb as star-beacons up Liberty's heaven.
Hold on,—still hold on,—in the world's despite,
Nurse the faith in thy heart, keep the lamp of Truth bright,
And, my life for thine! it shall end in the Right.

Think of the Wrongs that have ground us for ages,
Think of the Wrongs we have still to endure!
Think of our blood, red on History's pages;
Then work, that our reck'ning be speedy and sure.
Slaves cry to their Gods! but be our God revealed
In our lives, in our works, in our warfare for man;

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And bearing—or borne upon—Victory's shield,
Let us fight battle-harnessed, and fall in the van.
Hold on,—still hold on,—in the world's despite,
Nurse the faith in thy heart, keep the lamp of Truth bright,
And, my life for thine! it shall end in the Right.

THE KINGLIEST KINGS.

Ho! ye who in a noble work
Win scorn, as flames draw air,
And in the way where Lions lurk,
God's image bravely bear;
Though trouble-tried and torture-torn,
The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn.

Life's glory, like the bow in heaven,
Still springeth from the cloud;
Soul ne'er out-soared the starry Seven,
But Pain's fire-chariot rode:
They've battled best who've boldliest borne;
The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn.

The Martyr's fire-crown on the brow
Doth into glory burn;
And tears that from Love's torn heart flow,
To pearls of spirit turn.
Our dearest hopes in pangs are born;
The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn.

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As beauty in Death's cerement shrouds,
And Stars bejewel Night,
Bright thoughts are born in dim heart-clouds,
And suffering worketh might.
The mirkest hour is Mother o' Morn,
The kingliest Kings are crowned with thorn.

HOPE ON, HOPE EVER.

Hope on, hope ever! though To-day be dark,
The sweet sunburst may smile on thee Tomorrow:
Though thou art lonely, there's an eye will mark
Thy loneliness, and guerdon all thy sorrow!
Though thou must toil 'mong cold and sordid men,
With none to echo back thy thought, or love thee,
Cheer up, poor heart! thou dost not beat in vain;
While God is over all, and heaven above thee,
Hope on, hope ever.

The iron may enter in and pierce the soul,
But cannot kill the love within thee burning:
The tears of misery, thy bitter dole,
Can never quench thy true heart's eager yearning
For better things: nor crush thy ardour's trust,
That Error from the mind shall be uprooted,
That Truth shall flower from all this tear-dewed dust,
And Love be cherished where Hate was embruted!
Hope on, hope ever.

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I know 'tis hard to bear the sneer and taunt,—
With the heart's honest pride at midnight wrestle;
To feel the killing canker-worm of Want,
While rich rogues in their mocking luxury nestle;
For I have felt it. Yet from Earth's cold Real
My soul looks out on coming things, and cheerful
The warm Sunrise floods all the land Ideal,
And still it whispers to the worn and tearful,
Hope on, hope ever.

Hope on, hope ever! after darkest night
Comes, full of loving life, the laughing Morning;
Hope on, hope ever! Spring-tide, flushed with light,
Aye crowns old Winter with her rich adorning.
Hope on, hope ever! yet the time shall come,
When man to man shall be a friend and brother;
And this old world shall be a happy home,
And all Earth's family love one another!
Hope on, hope ever.

THE THREE VOICES.

A wailing Voice comes up a desolate road,
Drearily, drearily, drearily!
Where mankind have trodden the By-way of blood,
Wearily, wearily, wearily!
Like a sound from the Dead Sea all shrouded in glooms
With breaking of hearts, fetters clanking, men groaning,

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Or chorus of Ravens that croak among tombs,
It comes with the mournfullest moaning:
“Weep, weep, weep!”
Yoke-fellows, listen,
Till tearful eyes glisten:
'Tis the Voice of the Past: the dark, grim-featured Past,
All sad as the shriek of the midnight blast:
Weep, weep, weep,
Tears to wash out the terrible stain,
Where Humanity rotted
That lands might be fatted,
Or life ran a deluge of hot, ruddy rain:
Weep, weep, weep.

Another Voice comes from the millions that bend,
Tearfully, tearfully, tearfully!
From hearts which the scourges of Slavery rend,
Fearfully, fearfully, fearfully!
From many a worn, noble spirit that breaks,
In the world's solemn shadows adown in Life's valleys,
From Mine, Forge, and Loom, Mount and Valley it wakes,
On the soul wherein Liberty rallies:
“Work, work, work!”
Yoke-fellows, listen:
Till earnest eyes glisten:
'Tis the Voice of the Present. It bids us, my Brothers,
Be Freemen: and then for the freedom of others
Work, work, work!
For the Many, a holocaust long to the Few:

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O work while ye may!
O work while 'tis day!
And cling to each other, united and true:
Work, work, work.

There cometh another Voice sweetest of all,
Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily!
And my heart leapeth up at its clarion-call,
Merrily, merrily, merrrily!
It comes like the touch of the Spring-tide, unwarping
The frost of oppression that bound us:
It comes like a choir of Celestials, harping
Their gladsomest music around us:
“Hope, hope, hope!”
Yoke-fellows, listen,
Till gleeful eyes glisten:
The Voice of the Future, the sweetest of all,
Makes the heart leap to its clarion-call.
Hope, hope, hope!
Be of good cheer and step forth in the van,
For Serfdom hath passed,
And Labour at last
Shall enter the Brotherhood common to Man:
Hope, hope, hope!

ONWARD AND SUNWARD.

“ Tell me the song of the beautiful Stars,
As grandly they glide on their blue way above us,
Looking, despite of our spirit's sin-scars,
Down on us here as if yearning to love us!”

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This is the song in their work-worship sung,
All through the world-jewelled universe rung:
“Onward for ever, for evermore onward,”
And ever they open their loving eyes Sunward.

“Onward,” shouts Earth, with her myriad voices
Of music, aye answering the song of the Seven,
As like a winged child of God's love she rejoices,
Swinging her Censer of glory in heaven.
And lo, it is writ by the finger of God,
In sunbeams and flowers on the smiling green sod:
“Onward for ever, for evermore onward,”
And ever she turneth all trustfully Sunward.

The mightiest souls of all time hover o'er us,
Who laboured like Gods among men, and have gone
With great bursts of sun on the dark way before us:
They're with us, still with us, our battle fight on,
Looking down victor-browed, from the glory-crowned hill,
They beckon and beacon us on, onward still:
And the true heart's aspirings are onward, still onward;
It turns to the Future, as earth turneth Sunward.

GOD'S WORLD IS WORTHY OF BETTER MEN.

Behold! an idle tale they tell,
But who shall blame their telling it?
The rogues have got their cant to sell,
The world pays well for selling it!

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They say our earth's a desert drear,—
Still plagued with Egypt's blindness!
That we were sent to suffer here,—
And by a God of kindness!

That since the world hath gone astray
It must be so for ever,
And we should stand still, and obey
Its Desolators. Never!

We'll labour for the better time,
With all our might of Press and Pen;
Believe me, 'tis a truth sublime,
God's world is worthy of better men.

'Twas meant to be, since it began,
A world of love and gladness:
Its beauty may be marred by man
With all his crime and madness,

Yet 'tis a fair world still. Love brings
A sunshine for the dreary;
With all our strife, sweet Rest hath wings
To fold about the weary.

The Sun in glory, like a God,
To-day in heaven is shining;
The flowers on the jewelled sod
Love-messages are twining,

As radiant of immortal youth
And beauty, as of old; ah! then
Believe me 'tis eternal truth,
God's world is worthy of better men.

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O! they are bold, knaves over-bold,
Who say we are doomed to anguish:
That men in God's own image souled,
Like hell-bound slaves must languish.

Probe Nature's heart to its red core,
There's more of good than evil;
And man, down-trampled man, is more
Of Angel than of Devil.

Prepare to die? Prepare to live!
We know not what is living:
And let us for the world's good give,
As God is ever giving.

Give Action, Thought, Love, Wealth, and Time;
Work hand and brain, wield Press and Pen:
Believe me, 'tis a truth sublime,
God's world is worthy of better men.

THIS WORLD IS FULL OF BEAUTY.

There lives a Voice within me, a guest-angel of my heart,
And its bird-like warbles win me, till the tears a-tremble start;
Up evermore it springeth, like some magic melody,
And evermore it singeth this sweet song of songs to me—
“This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above.
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love.”

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Morn's budding, bright, melodious hour comes sweetly as of yore;
Night's starry tendernesses dower with glory evermore:
But there be million hearts accursed, where no glad sunbursts shine,
And there be million souls athirst for Life's immortal wine.
This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love.

If faith, and hope, and kindness passed, as coin, 'twixt heart and heart,
Up through the eye's tear-blindness, how the sudden soul should start!
The dreary, dim, and desolate, would wear a sunny bloom,
And Love should spring from buried Hate, like flowers from Winter's tomb.
This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love.

Were truth our uttered language, Spirits might talk with men,
And God-illumined earth should see the Golden Age again;
The burthened heart should soar in mirth like Morn's young prophet-lark,
And Misery's last tear wept on earth quench Hell's last cunning spark!

275

This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love.

We hear the cry for bread with plenty smiling all around;
Hill and valley in their bounty blush for Man with fruitage crowned.
What a merry world it might be, opulent for all, and aye,
With its lands that ask for labour, and its wealth that wastes away!
This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love.

The leaf-tongues of the forest, and the flower-lips of the sod—
The happy Birds that hymn their raptures in the ear of God—
The summer wind that bringeth music over land and sea,
Have each a voice that singeth this sweet song of songs to me—
“This world is full of beauty, as other worlds above;
And, if we did our duty, it might be as full of love.”

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THERE'S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS.

There's no dearth of kindness
In this world of ours;
Only in our blindness
We gather thorns for flowers!
Outwardly we are spurning—
Trampling one another!
While we are inly yearning
At the name of “Brother!”

There's no dearth of kindness
Or love among mankind,
But in darkling loneness
Hooded hearts grow blind!
Full of kindness tingling,
Soul is shut from soul,
When they might be mingling
In one kindred whole.

There's no dearth of kindness,
Though it be unspoken;
From the heart it sendeth
Smiles of heaven in token
That there be none so lowly,
But have some angel-touch:
Yet, nursing loves unholy,
We live for self too much!

As the wild-rose bloweth,
As runs the happy river,
Kindness freely floweth
In the heart for ever.

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But if men will hanker
Ever for golden dust,
Best of hearts will canker,
Brightest spirits rust.

There's no dearth of kindness
In this world of ours;
Only in our blindness
We gather thorns for flowers!
O cherish God's best giving,
Falling from above,—
Life were not worth living,
Were it not for Love.

THE KNIGHTS OF LABOUR.

Unite ye now, a Brother-band,
With dauntless will, and stalwart hand:
We are but few, toil-tried, and true,
Yet hearts beat high to dare and do:
And who would not a Champion be
In Labour's Knightlier Chivalry?

We fight! but bear no bloody brand,
We fight to free our Fatherland:
We fight that smiles of love may glow
On lips where curses quiver now!
Hurrah! Hurrah! true Warriors we,
In Labour's Knightlier Chivalry!

Ah! there be eyes that ache to see
The day-dawn of our victory:

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Lives full of heart-break with us plead,
And Watchers weep, and Martyrs bleed:
O! who would not a Champion be
In Labour's Knightlier Chivalry?

Work, Brothers mine; work, brain and hand:
To free our labour and our land;
That Love's Millennial morn may rise
On happy hearts and blessèd eyes.
Hurrah! Hurrah! true Workers be
In Labour's Knightlier Chivalry.

THE CHIVALRY OF LABOUR.

Our world oft turns in gloom, and Life hath many a perilous way,
Yet there's no path so desolate and thorny, cold and gray,
But Beauty like a Beacon burns above the dark of strife,
And as an Alchemist she turns all things to golden life.
On human hearts her presence droppeth precious manna down;
On human brows her glory gathers like a coming crown:
Her smile lights up Life's troubled stream, and Love, the swimmer! lives;
And O, 'tis good to battle for the guerdon that she gives!

279

Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old,
O Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold!

The first-fruits of the Past at Beauty's shrine are offered up,
From which a vintage meet for Gods she crusheth in her cup:
And from the living Present doth she press the rare new wine,
To glad the hearts of all her Lovers with a draught divine.
Earth's crowning miracle! she comes! with blessing lips, that part
Like mid-May's rose flushed open with the fragrance of her heart:
And life turns to her colour—kindles with her light—like flowers
That garner up the golden fire, and suck the mellow showers.
Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old,
O Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold!

Come let us worship Beauty where the budding Spring doth flower,
And lush green leaves and grasses breathe out! sweeter hour by hour;
Or Summer's tide of splendour floods the lap o' the World once more,
With riches like a sea that surges jewels on its shore.

280

Come feel her ripening influence when Morning feasts our eyes—
Through open gates of glory—with a glimpse of Paradise:
Or queenly Night sits crownèd, smiling down the purple gloom,
And Stars, like Heaven's fruitage, melt i' the glory of their bloom.
Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old,
O Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold!

Come from the den of darkness and the City's soil of sin,
Put on your radiant Manhood, and the Angel's blessing win!
Where wealthier sunlight's shed from Heaven, like welcome-smiles of God,
And Earth's blind yearnings leap to life in flowers from out the sod:
Come worship Beauty in the forest-temple, dim and hush,
Where stands Magnificence dreaming! and God burneth in the bush:
Or where the old hills worship with their silence for a psalm,
Or Ocean's weary heart doth keep the sabbath of its calm.
Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old,
O Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold!

281

Come let us worship Beauty: she hath subtle power to start
Heroic word and deed out-flashing from the humblest heart!
Great feelings will gush unawares, and freshly as the first
Rich Rainbow that up startled Heaven in tearful splendour burst.
O blessed are her lineaments, and wondrous are her ways
To picture God's dim likeness in the faded human face!
Our bliss shall richly overbrim like sunset in the west,
And we shall dream immortal dreams, and banquet with the Blest:
Come let us worship Beauty with the Knightly faith of old,
O Chivalry of Labour toiling for the Age of Gold!

1849.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

High hopes that burned like Stars sublime
Go down i' the Heaven of Freedom,
And true hearts perish in the time
We bitterliest need 'em;
But never sit we down and say
There's nothing left but sorrow;
We walk the Wilderness To-day,
The Promised Land To-morrow.

282

Our Birds of song are silent now;
Few are the flowers blooming;
Yet life is in the frozen bough,
And Freedom's Spring is coming;
And Freedom's tide creeps up alway,
Though we may strand in sorrow;
And our good Bark, a-ground To-day,
Shall float again To-morrow!

'Tis weary watching wave by wave,
And yet the Tide heaves onward;
We climb, like Corals, grave by grave,
That pave a pathway sunward;
We are driven back, for our next fray
A newer strength to borrow,
And where the Vanguard camps To-day
The Rear shall rest To-morrow!

Through all the long, dark night of years
The People's cry ascendeth,
And Earth is wet with blood and tears,
But our meek sufferance endeth.
The Few shall not for ever sway,
The Many moil in sorrow;
The Powers of Hell are strong To-day,
The Christ shall rise To-morrow!

Though hearts brood o'er the Past, our eyes
With smiling Futures glisten;
For, lo! Our day bursts up the skies!
Lean out your souls and listen!
The world is rolling Freedom's way,
And ripening with her sorrow:
Take heart! who bear the Cross To-day
Shall wear the Crown To-morrow.

283

O Youth! flame-earnest, still aspire,
With energies immortal!
To many a heaven of Desire
Our yearning opes a portal.
And though Age wearies by the way,
And hearts break in the furrow,
Youth sows the golden grain To-day,—
The Harvest comes To-morrow.

Build up heroic lives, and all
Be like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to flash out at God's call,
O Chivalry of Labour!
Triumph and Toil are twins, though they
Be singly born in Sorrow;
And 'tis the Martyrdom To-day
Brings victory To-morrow.