 | Songs of Democracy |  |
SONG OF THE DAYLABORERS.
Sharpen the sickle, the fields are white;
'Tis the time of the harvest at last.
Reapers, be up with the morning-light,
Ere the blush of its youth be past.
Why stand on the highway and lounge at the gate,
With a summerday's work to perform?
If you wait for the hiring 'tis long you may wait—
Till the hour of the night and the storm.
'Tis the time of the harvest at last.
Reapers, be up with the morning-light,
Ere the blush of its youth be past.
Why stand on the highway and lounge at the gate,
With a summerday's work to perform?
If you wait for the hiring 'tis long you may wait—
Till the hour of the night and the storm.
Sharpen the sickle; how proud they stand
In the pomp of their golden grain!
But I'm thinking, ere noon 'neath the sweep of my hand
How many will lie on the plain!
Though the ditch be wide, the fence be high,
There's a spirit to carry us o'er:
For God never meant his people to die
In sight of so rich a store.
In the pomp of their golden grain!
But I'm thinking, ere noon 'neath the sweep of my hand
How many will lie on the plain!
Though the ditch be wide, the fence be high,
There's a spirit to carry us o'er:
For God never meant his people to die
In sight of so rich a store.
Sharpen the sickle; how full the ears!
Our children are crying for bread;
And the field has been watered with orphans' tears
And enriched with their fathers dead;
And hopes that are buried, and hearts that broke,
Lie deep in the treasuring sod:
Then sweep down the grain with a thunder-stroke,
In the name of humanity's God!
Our children are crying for bread;
And the field has been watered with orphans' tears
And enriched with their fathers dead;
And hopes that are buried, and hearts that broke,
Lie deep in the treasuring sod:
Then sweep down the grain with a thunder-stroke,
In the name of humanity's God!
A SONG OF RESURRECTION
Freedom has risen—
Freedom has risen—
Freedom has risen to-day!
The daughter of heaven
Her tomb has riven,
And burst from her gaolers away.
Freedom has risen—
Freedom has risen to-day!
The daughter of heaven
Her tomb has riven,
And burst from her gaolers away.
“When was she born?
How was she nurst?
Where was her cradle laid?”
In want and scorn,
Reviled and curst,
'Mid the ranks of toil and trade.
How was she nurst?
Where was her cradle laid?”
In want and scorn,
Reviled and curst,
'Mid the ranks of toil and trade.
“And hath she gone
On her holy-morn,
Nor staid for long workday?”
From heaven she came,
On earth to remain,
And bide with her sons alway.
On her holy-morn,
Nor staid for long workday?”
From heaven she came,
On earth to remain,
And bide with her sons alway.
“Did she break the grave
Our souls to save
And leave our bodies in hell?”
To save us alive
If we will but strive,
Body and soul as well.
Our souls to save
And leave our bodies in hell?”
To save us alive
If we will but strive,
Body and soul as well.
“Then what must we do
To prove us true,
And what is the law she gave?”
Never fulfil
A tyrant's will,
Nor willingly live a slave.
To prove us true,
And what is the law she gave?”
Never fulfil
A tyrant's will,
Nor willingly live a slave.
Then this we'll do
To prove us true,
And follow the law she gave;
Never fulfil
A tyrant's will,
Nor willingly live a slave.
To prove us true,
And follow the law she gave;
Never fulfil
A tyrant's will,
Nor willingly live a slave.
THE MARRIAGE FEAST.
Come to the marriage feast
Where the glittering tables wait—
Where the greatest shall be the least,
And the least shall be the great;
From the street and the bleak highway,
From hovel, and hut, and shed:
'Tis the feast of the Lord to-day,
The giver of life and bread.
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Where the glittering tables wait—
Where the greatest shall be the least,
And the least shall be the great;
From the street and the bleak highway,
From hovel, and hut, and shed:
'Tis the feast of the Lord to-day,
The giver of life and bread.
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Ho! stay thee! thou proud Pharisee!
Ho! stay thee! thou changer of gold!
Tho' gorgeous thy garments may be,
There's a stain on their glittering fold.
See! there ran the tear of the child!
See! there flowed the blood of the poor!
The feast of the Lord is defiled!
Away with him—out from the door.
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Ho! stay thee! thou changer of gold!
Tho' gorgeous thy garments may be,
There's a stain on their glittering fold.
See! there ran the tear of the child!
See! there flowed the blood of the poor!
The feast of the Lord is defiled!
Away with him—out from the door.
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Ho! stay thee! thou hypocrite priest,
Who hast made of religion a mock!
Who ever bade thee to my feast,
Overgorged with the spoil of my flock?
Thou sinner, of all most abhorred!
Thy temples of Baal are no more:
Come, seize him—ye saints of the Lord,
Away with him, out from the door!
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Who hast made of religion a mock!
Who ever bade thee to my feast,
Overgorged with the spoil of my flock?
Thou sinner, of all most abhorred!
Thy temples of Baal are no more:
Come, seize him—ye saints of the Lord,
Away with him, out from the door!
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Ho! stay thee, thou scourge of the brave!
Ho! stay thee, thou proud sceptred thing!
Not mine was the unction they gave:
'Twas the devil who crowned thee a king!
Thou hast ruled by the axe and the sword,
Thou hast lived on the death of the poor:
Not for thee is the feast of the Lord,
Away with him—out from the door!
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Ho! stay thee, thou proud sceptred thing!
Not mine was the unction they gave:
'Twas the devil who crowned thee a king!
Thou hast ruled by the axe and the sword,
Thou hast lived on the death of the poor:
Not for thee is the feast of the Lord,
Away with him—out from the door!
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Who art thou with parchment and gown,
Who makest of justice a trade?
In the Gospel my laws are writ' down,
I know not the laws ye have made.
Who art thou, with forehead accurst,
Deep tinted in blood to the knee?
I doomed the one Cain at the first,
To the last they shall perish as he!
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Who makest of justice a trade?
In the Gospel my laws are writ' down,
I know not the laws ye have made.
Who art thou, with forehead accurst,
Deep tinted in blood to the knee?
I doomed the one Cain at the first,
To the last they shall perish as he!
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Without, there is gnashing of teeth!
Without, there is wringing of hands!
'Twixt his servitors dread, Life and Death,
The Lord of the Universe stands:
And past him they flit, Priest and King,
All the lords of land, labour, and gold,
They come, from each new tyrant thing,
To each cankerworn privilege old.
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Without, there is wringing of hands!
'Twixt his servitors dread, Life and Death,
The Lord of the Universe stands:
And past him they flit, Priest and King,
All the lords of land, labour, and gold,
They come, from each new tyrant thing,
To each cankerworn privilege old.
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
And away they are cast from the door:
For the doom they have preached of so fast,
With which they long frightened the poor,
Was kept for themselves at the last!
And the earth that was turned to a hell,
And the heaven men knew but by name,
Since the many-fold Man-Satan fell,
Were found to be one and the same.
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
For the doom they have preached of so fast,
With which they long frightened the poor,
Was kept for themselves at the last!
And the earth that was turned to a hell,
And the heaven men knew but by name,
Since the many-fold Man-Satan fell,
Were found to be one and the same.
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Then hail to the marriage feast,
Where the glittering tables wait,
And the greatest are made the least,
And the least are made the great.
By the borders that Adam once trod,
The gardens of Paradise spread,
For the God of our praise, is “the God
Of the living, and not of the dead.”
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
Where the glittering tables wait,
And the greatest are made the least,
And the least are made the great.
By the borders that Adam once trod,
The gardens of Paradise spread,
For the God of our praise, is “the God
Of the living, and not of the dead.”
Come to the marriage feast, &c.
SONG OF THE FACTORY SLAVE.
The land it is the landlords':
The traders' is the sea;
The ore the usurers' coffer fills,
But what remains for me?
The engine whirls for master's craft,
The steel shines to defend,
With labor's arms, what labor raised,
For labors' foe to spend.
The camp, the pulpit, and the law,
For rich men's sons are free;
Theirs, theirs are learning, art, and arms;
But what remains for me?
The coming hope, the future day,
When wrong to right shall bow,
And hearts that have the courage, man,
To make that future now.
The traders' is the sea;
The ore the usurers' coffer fills,
But what remains for me?
The engine whirls for master's craft,
The steel shines to defend,
With labor's arms, what labor raised,
For labors' foe to spend.
The camp, the pulpit, and the law,
For rich men's sons are free;
Theirs, theirs are learning, art, and arms;
But what remains for me?
The coming hope, the future day,
When wrong to right shall bow,
And hearts that have the courage, man,
To make that future now.
I pay for all their learning,
I toil for all their ease;
They render back in coin for coin,
Want, ignorance, disease:—
Toil—toil—and then, a cheerless home,
Where hungry passions cross;
Eternal gain to them, that give
To me eternal loss!
The hour of leisure happiness
The rich alone may see;
The playful child, the smiling wife—
But what remains for me?
The coming hope, the future day,
When wrong to right shall bow;
And hearts that have the courage, man,
To make that future now.
I toil for all their ease;
They render back in coin for coin,
Want, ignorance, disease:—
Toil—toil—and then, a cheerless home,
Where hungry passions cross;
Eternal gain to them, that give
To me eternal loss!
The hour of leisure happiness
The rich alone may see;
The playful child, the smiling wife—
But what remains for me?
The coming hope, the future day,
When wrong to right shall bow;
And hearts that have the courage, man,
To make that future now.
They render back, those rich men
A pauper's niggard fee,
Mayhap a prison—then a grave,
And think they're quits with me;
But not a fond wife's heart that breaks—
A poor man's child that dies,
We score not on our hollow cheeks
And in our sunken eyes:
We read it there—whene'er we meet,
And as the sum we see,
Each asks—“the rich have got the earth,
And what remains for me?”
The coming hope, the future day,
When wrong to right shall bow,
And hearts that have courage, man
To make that future now.
A pauper's niggard fee,
Mayhap a prison—then a grave,
And think they're quits with me;
But not a fond wife's heart that breaks—
A poor man's child that dies,
We score not on our hollow cheeks
And in our sunken eyes:
We read it there—whene'er we meet,
And as the sum we see,
Each asks—“the rich have got the earth,
And what remains for me?”
The coming hope, the future day,
When wrong to right shall bow,
And hearts that have courage, man
To make that future now.
We bear the wrong in silence,
We store it in our brain;
They think us dull—they think us dead:
But we shall rise again:
A trumpet through the lands will ring;
A heaving thro' the mass;
A trampling thro' their palaces,
Until they break like glass:
We'll cease to weep by cherished graves,
From lonely homes will flee:
And still as rolls our million-march,
Its watchword brave shall be:—
The coming hope—the future day,
When wrong to right shall bow,
And hearts that have the courage, man,
To make that future now.
We store it in our brain;
They think us dull—they think us dead:
But we shall rise again:
A trumpet through the lands will ring;
A heaving thro' the mass;
A trampling thro' their palaces,
Until they break like glass:
We'll cease to weep by cherished graves,
From lonely homes will flee:
And still as rolls our million-march,
Its watchword brave shall be:—
The coming hope—the future day,
When wrong to right shall bow,
And hearts that have the courage, man,
To make that future now.
THE SONG OF THE POOR.
Labour! Labour! Labour!—Toil! Toil! Toil!
With the wearing of the bone and the drowning of the mind,
Sink, like shrivelled parchment, in the fleshdevouring soil!
Pass away unheeded, like the waving of the wind!
With the wearing of the bone and the drowning of the mind,
Sink, like shrivelled parchment, in the fleshdevouring soil!
Pass away unheeded, like the waving of the wind!
Be the living record of a tyrant's bloody fame;
Form the trodden pathway for a conqueror's; career;
Give your breath, ye millions! to elevate his name,
And die!—when ye have shouted it till centuries shall hear.
Form the trodden pathway for a conqueror's; career;
Give your breath, ye millions! to elevate his name,
And die!—when ye have shouted it till centuries shall hear.
By right divine we rule ye.—God made ye but for us!—
Thus cry the lords of nations to the slaves whom they subdue,
Unclasp God's book of nature: Its writings read not thus.
Hear! Tramplers on the many! Hear Benders to the few!
Thus cry the lords of nations to the slaves whom they subdue,
Unclasp God's book of nature: Its writings read not thus.
Hear! Tramplers on the many! Hear Benders to the few!
God gave us hearts of ardour,—God gave us noble forms,
And God has poured around us his paradise of light;
Has he bade us sow the sunshine, and only reap the storms?
Created us in glory, to pass away in night?
And God has poured around us his paradise of light;
Has he bade us sow the sunshine, and only reap the storms?
Created us in glory, to pass away in night?
No! say the sunny heavens, that smile on all alike;
The waves that upbear navies, yet hold them in their thrall;
No! shouts the dreadful thunder, that teaches to strike.
The proud, for one usurping, what the God-head meant for all.
The waves that upbear navies, yet hold them in their thrall;
No! shouts the dreadful thunder, that teaches to strike.
The proud, for one usurping, what the God-head meant for all.
No! No!—we cry, united by our suffering's mighty length,—
Ye—Ye have ruled for ages—now we will rule as well;
No! No!—we cry, triumphant in our right's resistless strength,
We—we will share your heaven—or ye shall share our hell!
Ye—Ye have ruled for ages—now we will rule as well;
No! No!—we cry, triumphant in our right's resistless strength,
We—we will share your heaven—or ye shall share our hell!
THE FISHERMEN.
Three fishermen sat by the side
Of the many-toned popular stream,
That rolled with its heavy-paced tide
In the shade of its own dark dream.
Of the many-toned popular stream,
That rolled with its heavy-paced tide
In the shade of its own dark dream.
Now sullen and quiet and deep,—
Now fretful, and foaming, and wild;
Now calm as a Titan asleep,
And now like a petulant child.
Now fretful, and foaming, and wild;
Now calm as a Titan asleep,
And now like a petulant child.
First, sat there the fisher of France,
And he smiled as the waters came,
For he kindled their light with a glance,
At the bait of a popular name.
And he smiled as the waters came,
For he kindled their light with a glance,
At the bait of a popular name.
Next, the fisher of Russia was there,
Fishing for German States,
And, throwing his lines with care,
He made his own daughters the baits.
Fishing for German States,
And, throwing his lines with care,
He made his own daughters the baits.
Next, the Austrian fisher-boy set
His snares in the broad river's way,—
But, so widely he stretched his net,
It half broke with the weight of his prey.
His snares in the broad river's way,—
But, so widely he stretched his net,
It half broke with the weight of his prey.
And next, on an island I saw
Many fishermen catching with glee,
At the baits of “peace” “freedom” and “law,”
Slave-fish, while they christened them “free.”
Many fishermen catching with glee,
At the baits of “peace” “freedom” and “law,”
Slave-fish, while they christened them “free.”
And still, as they hooked the prize
They cried with a keen delight,
And held up the spoil to their eyes:
“The gudgeon! they bite! they bite!”
They cried with a keen delight,
And held up the spoil to their eyes:
“The gudgeon! they bite! they bite!”
But the hooks with time grow dull,
And the lines grow weak-with age,
And the thaw makes the rivers full,
And the wind makes the waters rage;
And the lines grow weak-with age,
And the thaw makes the rivers full,
And the wind makes the waters rage;
And spoilt is the fishermens' trade,
And the zest of their bait is past,
And those, on the fish who preyed,
Are the prey of the fish at last.
And the zest of their bait is past,
And those, on the fish who preyed,
Are the prey of the fish at last.
| Songs of Democracy | |