My Lyrical Life Poems Old and New. By Gerald Massey |
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THEY ARE BUT GIANTS WHILE WE KNEEL. |
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 | My Lyrical Life |  |
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.
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.
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.
249
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.
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!
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.
250
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.
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.
251
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!
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!
| My Lyrical Life | |