 | Songs of the Seasons |  |
MOVEMENTS—THE LEADER AND HIS FOLLOWERS.
I
Every day and every night,Under us, and overhead,
Round about, the book is spread
That cannot be too often read.
In this scripture of delight—
In this great, untiring page—
Lie revealed to scholar and sage
The secrets of each passing age.
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II
Every student of the scroll,Earnest in his high pursuit,
Labouring with a mind acute,
And with spirit resolute,
Holds, by virtue of his call,
By service of both head and heart,
By skill in the decyphering art,
A privileged and honoured part
III
In the great progressive work,In the conquest of the light
Over ignorance and night—
In the triumph of God's right.
Where it will, let evil lurk
'Mongst the dark dens of the earth;
From its hidings men of worth
Vow to drag the demon forth.
IV
In our own exalting timeLiberty of soul increases,
Bigotry's dominion ceases,
Thrones despotic fall to pieces.
So they tell us who would climb
To the summits they asperse—
Fill themselves the thrones they curse—
Evil rule convert to worse;
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V
From the altar snatch the offering,Quench the fire by angels fed,
Desecrate the Wine and Bread,
Trample upon Christ the Head;
Fill a happy land with suffering—
In its furrows scored by toil
Sow the seeds of rank turmoil—
Mar the virtue of the soil.
VI
Blind old Britain! is the letterOf history—the history
Of Liberty and Tyranny—
Become a sealéd book to thee?
Dost thou glory in the fetter,
As an ornament in vogue,
Forged by regicide and rogue,
By radical and demagogue?
VII
From thy memory have slippedEvery glorious recollection,
And the faith in God's protection,
Once thy rudder of direction?
Hast thou all remembrance dipped
In Lethe of thy sore besettings—
Of thy shifts and toils and sweatings—
Of thy losings and thy gettings?
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VIII
Of thy place among the nations—Not the perquisite of ease,
But on crimson'd fields and seas
Won and held by slow degrees—
Fought to, both with toil and patience,
In the uphill, weary fight,
Where to win needs hand of might,
Head and heart, and cause of right?
IX
Base-born serf and rabid spouter!What do they for Britain's honour?
Of what boon is he the donor,
That, to slight her, looks upon her?
Of his honesty a doubter,
I regard him, and with cause,
As disturber of tried laws,
Living but for self-applause;
X
Even to his pet, Reform(Which he prates of, nothing knowing,
And exalts in phrases glowing),
Treacherous on his own showing.
“Sow the elements of storm
Broadcast over hill and dale,
Hoist the drum, and raise the gale,
So the Ship of State may sail!”
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XI
True! this is the Wrecker's scoffing,Yet a willing pilot stands
Ready to the Wrecker's hands,
Trustless as the treacherous sands.
Loyalty would seek the offing,
Speak its gratitude in psalm,
Lion o'er the Oriflamme,
Court the harbour and the calm.
XII
But the toiler at the helm—Is he loyal? Pause! while asking—
Statesmen, in the sunshine basking,
Study well the art of masking.
Him to trust to, save the realm!
He of all men careth least
Whence the wind blows, West or East,
So he shares the Wrecker's feast.
XIII
Stronger than the patriot's zeal,Stronger than a knightly tower,
Strong to hold and to devour
Is the rabid lust of power.
Who regards the common weal,
Right maintains, or from aggression
Shields by strength or intercession
When this demon takes possession?
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XIV
Tell me not we have a leaderLeavened with the single spirit—
One beyond the common merit,
Born great honour to inherit.
I see nothing but the feeder
Of convulsions in the man—
Eker out of his own plan—
Trimmer to the Vatican.
XV
Not the true, desired exampleOf a statesman large of soul,
With whose power of self-control
Grows the power that rules the whole—
One whose energies are ample,
But his heart is ampler still,
Who, by an instinctive skill,
Can work out a nation's will.
XVI
Is he such, to whom committedAre the sacred trusts, whereon
Rests the Triple Union—
Rest the Church, the State, and Throne?
For a loftier purpose fitted
Than to make ignoble paction
With the movers of reaction
And the demon soul of faction?
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XVII
Oh! I fear the brave, old spiritThat engender'd men of part,
Adepts in the ruling art,
Has died out of Britain's heart!
Who are they that claim the merit
In this great reforming strife?
Judge them in the actual life;—
Spare nor branch nor pruning knife!
XVIII
Go to Birmingham or Sheffield,Bradford, Manchester, or Leeds—
Hot-beds for malignant seeds—
Nurseries of envenomed weeds!
Not to be out-done or baffled
In their purposes of wrong
Are the minds that sway the throng,
Hell-ward urging it along.
XIX
'Tis the baleful power of money,Working to an evil end,
In the name, may God forefend!
Of the self-styled People's Friend.
“Ours are both the wax and honey;
We are owners of the hives;
What to us the workers' lives,
Hungered households, jaded wives?
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XX
“Mills are ours that grind to order—Mar the human face divine—
Tamper with the inner shrine—
Keep us on the right incline,
Help to overstep the border
'Twixt Nobility and Trade.
Titled lordlings are outweighed,
Acred squires thrown into shade.
XXI
“Ay! look out! We have abettorsEverywhere. The franchise lower'd,
Now, and for all times untoward,
Is our sceptre and our sword!
Lawyers, and those men of letters
Who let out their wits for hire,
Facile are at our desire,
Borough to command or Shire.
XXII
“A constituency bindingTo our service and estate,
For our ends to legislate,
We have purposed to create.
Let our mills be set a-grinding!
We of the Progressive school,
When great Senates play the fool,
Bear the fittest heads to rule.
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XXIII
“Have we not ourselves made wealthyBy employing every shift—
Laws of discipline and thrift—
By the shuttle, sure and swift?
Who, in face of things unhealthy,
When the puppets of the great
Take bold guidance of the State,
Better trained to legislate?
XXIV
“Better versed in economics—Better up to men and things,
And not held by courts and kings
In perpetual leading-strings?
Who can act as fitter tonics
For a constitution worn;
Dazzling into nought the scorn
Of the beggar, nobly born?
XXV
“Are we not the merchant princes,Under tread of whom the mould
Of usages, as was foretold,
And vile dust shall turn to gold?
Heraldry before us winces,
So do every sham and boast;
Give us only Power and Post,
Won't we of them make the most?”
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XXVI
Such are those the Premier chooses,Wisely chooses for his friends,
And the hand that he extends
Helps to many private ends.
Little deems he what he loses,
Trusting to the purse-proud crew;
Of the many thinking true,
Doubting jealously the few.
XXVII
Yet the few he rashly scornethWait their day, and know its token,
When the judgment shall be spoken,
And the spell of evil broken;
When to him that nigh-hand doubteth
Of the Reason of the Nation,
Weeping o'er its degradation,
Shall be given consolation.
XXVIII
Names enrolled on banners flaunting,By the fickle mob paraded,
To some sin'ster scheme persuaded,
Under promises evaded,
Now at summit of their vaunting,
Shouted at the People's meetings,
And at Loyalty's defeatings
Trumpeted in clamorous greetings—
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XXIX
Comes the time, and is not distant,When as bye-words these shall be
Cast as a reproach to thee,
Britain! in thine idiocy.
Seek and pray for an assistant
In the interim of strife,
To roll back the smoke and stife,
And restore thy wonted life.
XXX
Seek and pray for some great spirit—Part the Eagle, part the Dove—
Ruling in the cause of Love!
Fearing only God above—
A distinguisher of merit—
A despiser of all sect,
Leaning among thrones erect
On the staff of Intellect!
XXXI
Such the man the occasion needeth,Not the truckler to the mob,
Not the winker at a job,
Deeming it Reform to rob.
Better stuff in him that leadeth,
May we hope for—ay! shall get;
Britain's sun shall never set,
The “Good Time is coming yet.”
| Songs of the Seasons | |