 | Sonnets |  |
VI
TO THE CHARTISTS.
With doubtful purpose, through the doubtful night,Your spearheads glimmering in the misty moon,
Why gather ye; and with wild lyric tune
Call up the wondering cocks before the light?
Oh what conflicting sense of wrongs or right
Marshalled ye thus; and in the star-led noon
Of sleep bade forth? Hers is a better boon,
Dear countrymen, than that for which ye fight.
Think ye to utter, as the Sybil doth,
Rugged, and strange, but pèrdurable things;
The world's ordainèd counsel with mad mouth?
Now heavy-laden Time wild stories brings
Of Nostradamus; and the world is drowth,
Gaping for clouds—but Truth keeps the old springs.
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