My Lyrical Life Poems Old and New. By Gerald Massey |
 | 1. |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| 2. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
|
THE COALITION AND THE PEOPLE. |
|
 | My Lyrical Life |  |
369
THE COALITION AND THE PEOPLE.
O suffering people! this is not our fight
Who called a holy Crusade for the Right!
The Despots' bloody game our Tricksters play,
And stake our future chance by chance away.
Not Whigs! not Tories! we want English Souls,
Through which there yet reverberates and rolls
Some echo of old greatness; trusty hands
To bear our Banner over Seas and Lands.
Our good Ship may be driving on the rocks;
We need a Compass, and not Weather-Cocks!
We have had Leaders who strode forward all
On fire to serve her at their Country's call;
Who did not stoop, till blind, for place or pelf,
Their whole life burned a sacrifice of Self!
Who faced the spirit of the Storm and Strife
And with an upward smile laid down their life.
Who called a holy Crusade for the Right!
The Despots' bloody game our Tricksters play,
And stake our future chance by chance away.
Not Whigs! not Tories! we want English Souls,
Through which there yet reverberates and rolls
Some echo of old greatness; trusty hands
To bear our Banner over Seas and Lands.
Our good Ship may be driving on the rocks;
We need a Compass, and not Weather-Cocks!
We have had Leaders who strode forward all
On fire to serve her at their Country's call;
Who did not stoop, till blind, for place or pelf,
Their whole life burned a sacrifice of Self!
Who faced the spirit of the Storm and Strife
And with an upward smile laid down their life.
But now our Leaders are the coward and cold:
The Gnomes whose daylight is a gleam of gold;
The Dwarfs who sun them in a Despot's smile;
The Quakers who would set our dear green Isle
Spinning their Cotton till the Judgment Hour,
With Ocean turning round for Water-power.
They pander to this Plunderer of the night;
Confused their little sense of Wrong and Right,
And they would bow our England's forehead down
Trustfully in his lap to leave her crown;
See her sit weeping where her brave lie dead;
Blood on her raiment, ashes on her head.
We cannot leave our Land for watch and ward
To those who know not what a gem they guard;
Who would bind us helpless for the Bird of Blood
To swoop on; who would have this famous flood
Of English Freedom stagnate till it stink,
While reptiles wriggle in their slimy drink,
And the frogs reign in darkness; croak all night,
And call the Stars false Prophets of the Light.
The Gnomes whose daylight is a gleam of gold;
The Dwarfs who sun them in a Despot's smile;
The Quakers who would set our dear green Isle
Spinning their Cotton till the Judgment Hour,
With Ocean turning round for Water-power.
They pander to this Plunderer of the night;
Confused their little sense of Wrong and Right,
And they would bow our England's forehead down
Trustfully in his lap to leave her crown;
See her sit weeping where her brave lie dead;
Blood on her raiment, ashes on her head.
We cannot leave our Land for watch and ward
To those who know not what a gem they guard;
370
To swoop on; who would have this famous flood
Of English Freedom stagnate till it stink,
While reptiles wriggle in their slimy drink,
And the frogs reign in darkness; croak all night,
And call the Stars false Prophets of the Light.
O darkened hearts in Homesteads desolate!
O wasted bravery of our vainly great!
The Flower of Men fall stricken from behind:
The Knaves and Cowards stab us bound and blind.
With faces turned from Battle, they went forth:
We marched with ours flint-set against the North.
They shuffled lest their feet should rouse the dead:
We went with Resurrection in our tread.
They trembled lest the world might come to blows:
We quivered for the tug and mortal close.
They only meant a mild hint for the Czar:
We would have surfeited his soul with War.
While they were quenching Freedom's scattered fires,
We kindled memories of heroic Sires.
They'd have this grand Old England cringe and pray,
“Don't smite me, Kings; but if you will, you may.”
We'd make her as in those proud times of old,
When Cromwell spoke, and Blake's war-thunders rolled.
They on the passing powers of Darkness fawn;
With warrior-joy we greeted this red Dawn.
To crowned blood-suckers they would bind us slaves,
We would be free, or sleep in glorious graves.
State-Spiders, Here or There, weave webs alike;
These snare the victims, while the others strike.
The Dwarfs drag our great Banner in the mire:
We ask for Men to bear it high and higher.
O stop their fiddling over War's grim revel,
And pitch them from your shoulders to—the Devil.
O wasted bravery of our vainly great!
The Flower of Men fall stricken from behind:
The Knaves and Cowards stab us bound and blind.
With faces turned from Battle, they went forth:
We marched with ours flint-set against the North.
They shuffled lest their feet should rouse the dead:
We went with Resurrection in our tread.
They trembled lest the world might come to blows:
We quivered for the tug and mortal close.
They only meant a mild hint for the Czar:
We would have surfeited his soul with War.
While they were quenching Freedom's scattered fires,
We kindled memories of heroic Sires.
They'd have this grand Old England cringe and pray,
“Don't smite me, Kings; but if you will, you may.”
We'd make her as in those proud times of old,
When Cromwell spoke, and Blake's war-thunders rolled.
They on the passing powers of Darkness fawn;
With warrior-joy we greeted this red Dawn.
To crowned blood-suckers they would bind us slaves,
We would be free, or sleep in glorious graves.
371
These snare the victims, while the others strike.
The Dwarfs drag our great Banner in the mire:
We ask for Men to bear it high and higher.
O stop their fiddling over War's grim revel,
And pitch them from your shoulders to—the Devil.
| My Lyrical Life | |