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.
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:
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
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!
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.
