My Lyrical Life Poems Old and New. By Gerald Massey |
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AFTER THE STRUGGLE. |
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 | My Lyrical Life |  |
254
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.
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.
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.
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.
| My Lyrical Life | |