 | Voices of freedom and lyrics of love! |  |
18
WE'LL WIN OUR FREEDOM YET.
My heart weeps bloody sweat, to see the red wrong daily done!
O Brothers, knit your hearts, and put the battle mail-sark on,
And combat for the Hopeless, who give all life's glory up,—
That wolves may eat their hearts, and brim with blood, Wrong's revel-cup.
Up! if ye will be free, to golden calves no longer bow,
The nations yearn for liberty, the world is earnest now;
By Christ our Brother! God our Sire! do ye but truly set
A brave, free heart to mine, Boys! We'll win our freedom yet.
O Brothers, knit your hearts, and put the battle mail-sark on,
And combat for the Hopeless, who give all life's glory up,—
That wolves may eat their hearts, and brim with blood, Wrong's revel-cup.
Up! if ye will be free, to golden calves no longer bow,
The nations yearn for liberty, the world is earnest now;
By Christ our Brother! God our Sire! do ye but truly set
A brave, free heart to mine, Boys! We'll win our freedom yet.
The palace paupers look from lattice high, and mock our prayer;
The Champions of the Lord are dumb, the golden bit they wear,
O, but to see ye bend no more, to these crime-cursed things,
Ye are God's oracles! stand forth, be Nature's Priests and Kings!
The bent knee, is half way to Hell! Up, Serviles, from the dust,
The harvest of the free red-ripens, for our sickle-thrust,
By Christ our Brother! God our Sire! do ye but truly set
A brave, free heart to mine, Boys, We'll win our freedom yet.
The Champions of the Lord are dumb, the golden bit they wear,
O, but to see ye bend no more, to these crime-cursed things,
Ye are God's oracles! stand forth, be Nature's Priests and Kings!
The bent knee, is half way to Hell! Up, Serviles, from the dust,
The harvest of the free red-ripens, for our sickle-thrust,
By Christ our Brother! God our Sire! do ye but truly set
A brave, free heart to mine, Boys, We'll win our freedom yet.
The flowers will soon be springing, o'er our last year martyrs mould,
Like dreams from out their wreckt hearts, telling what they left untold,
Of all our rainbowed Future's fame, and what this earth shall be
When we have barter'd blows and bonds, for life, and liberty—
And what a face of glory shall this weary world put on,
When Love, a crowned god, shall sit, and rule in its heart-throne.
O, by these martyrs—these flower-dreams, do ye but truly set
A brave, free heart to mine, Boys, We'll win our freedom yet.
Like dreams from out their wreckt hearts, telling what they left untold,
19
When we have barter'd blows and bonds, for life, and liberty—
And what a face of glory shall this weary world put on,
When Love, a crowned god, shall sit, and rule in its heart-throne.
O, by these martyrs—these flower-dreams, do ye but truly set
A brave, free heart to mine, Boys, We'll win our freedom yet.
Freedom! that Mothers, Sires, may smile, who meet us, tear-blind, now,
Ere other morn, shall break in grey, above each blanching brow!
Freedom! that Love may be no more, death's kiss, to those we love,
That pride, not shame, may flush the cheek of our heart-nestling dove.
Freedom! that earth's good gifts may flow, as bountiful as rain—
And life, lie lightly on the heart, and merry on the brain!
By Christ our Brother! God our Sire! do ye but truly set
A brave, free heart to mine, Boys! We'll win this freedom yet.
Ere other morn, shall break in grey, above each blanching brow!
Freedom! that Love may be no more, death's kiss, to those we love,
That pride, not shame, may flush the cheek of our heart-nestling dove.
Freedom! that earth's good gifts may flow, as bountiful as rain—
And life, lie lightly on the heart, and merry on the brain!
By Christ our Brother! God our Sire! do ye but truly set
A brave, free heart to mine, Boys! We'll win this freedom yet.
| Voices of freedom and lyrics of love! | |