 | Voices of freedom and lyrics of love! |  |
58
WE ALL ARE BROTHERS STILL.
The poor man treads the earth in tears;
Soul-crusht, he turns to mourn apart;
There is no summer in his years,
No song of gladness in his heart.
The rich, in robes of pride adorn,
At pleasure's banquet quaff their fill;
And aye, some laugh, while others mourn,
Yet we are brothers still.
Soul-crusht, he turns to mourn apart;
There is no summer in his years,
No song of gladness in his heart.
The rich, in robes of pride adorn,
At pleasure's banquet quaff their fill;
And aye, some laugh, while others mourn,
Yet we are brothers still.
The poor man's home is desolate:
His children learn not Love's sweet wiles;
No looks of happy radiance wait
To glad his coming with their smiles.
For Wealth's wide-worshipt darlings keep
His weary bones to work their will;
And aye, some laugh, while others weep—
Yet we are brothers still.
His children learn not Love's sweet wiles;
No looks of happy radiance wait
To glad his coming with their smiles.
For Wealth's wide-worshipt darlings keep
His weary bones to work their will;
And aye, some laugh, while others weep—
Yet we are brothers still.
59
Our patient sufferance winneth scorn:
They scoff and spurn us bound and blind;
Yet hath this people's bosom borne
Earth's glory-crowned kings of mind.
Cruel and coward when we plead—
Eager and swift our blood to spill;
And aye, some laugh, while others bleed!
Yet we are brothers still.
They scoff and spurn us bound and blind;
Yet hath this people's bosom borne
Earth's glory-crowned kings of mind.
Cruel and coward when we plead—
Eager and swift our blood to spill;
And aye, some laugh, while others bleed!
Yet we are brothers still.
I know the time grows ready-ripe—
Their hearts, like hunted hares shall quake;
Death-daring spirits burn to wipe
Our wrongs away—our bonds to break.
'Twill come! ah, God! be with us, when
Long-maddened vengeance pants to kill;
Or we may grimly stifle then,
That we are brothers still.
Their hearts, like hunted hares shall quake;
Death-daring spirits burn to wipe
Our wrongs away—our bonds to break.
'Twill come! ah, God! be with us, when
Long-maddened vengeance pants to kill;
Or we may grimly stifle then,
That we are brothers still.
| Voices of freedom and lyrics of love! | |