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DAWN OF REVOLUTION

To Thomas Hardy.
To-night, there's music on the air;
Strange stirring, and rich turbulence:
Hope turned to pride; crowns for despair;
Night, and night's vast magnificence.

159

The flowers are swaying with delight,
And incense burdens the warm wind:
Now is incomparable night!
Stars in the vault, and Heaven behind.
Night hath fierce loveliness: clouds race
Past star and still unconquered star:
While, rivalling their mighty chace,
Rides, reigns, a marvellous moon afar.
What means the night? Back beats mine heart
Answer: Night teems with prophecy:
And thou! hast thou fore-hailed thy part,
And played thine own posterity?
Praising thy soul of fire, thy sword
Of death, thy death of victory?
Beheld thee on the crimson sward
Slain? Seen the eagles swoop to thee?
And turned thee, where thou standest bronze
Above the passing people's praise:
Or liest marble, where the sons
Of men thank God on triumph days?
The wind witches me; the hot air
Inflames my brows, and burns my blood:
No vehement love night flames so fair,
No feast of the vine pours such a flood.
Faces are wild before me: steel
Whirls its blue lighning, veined with red.
Palaces tremble down, or reel
To ruin, while the stars in dread

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Fade far into their quiet deeps,
Before the deep destroying roar:
Heavenward the costliest incense leaps,
And madness falls from Heaven the more.
Ah, the strained eyes, the frantic hands,
The bloody, racing feet! Where trod
His priests of sacrifice, now stands
Each gaunt, starved enemy of God.
What is the end? Nay! what know I,
With these drums thundering through mine ears,
Through the changed earth, the unchanging sky:
The wreck of immemorial years?
Liberty! for the end is come:
The end, that shall begin new earth,
And end the old Heavens: that look down dumb
Upon no second fair, calm birth
Of morning stars in melody,
But the sad birth through bitter stress,
And elemental misery,
Of freedom's newfound righteousness.
But I grow tired in a pause of wind:
The clouds drag, the worn flowers are still.
Courage! fresh visions troop behind
That gloomiest cloud, that shadowy hill.
There! from the soft heart of the cloud
Dance forth wild choirs with wantoning hair:
The angels of rebellion, vowed
To pour their passion on the air.

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Distraught sublimity of death
Wilders them: Oh, to storm life out,
Destroying life at every breath,
With cry of lust, with battle shout!
Over the vines an heady shower
Sweeps, of enamouring windy rain:
Each shrivelled bough and dusty flower
Loves the swift dew, and lives again.
And falling with the vehement streams,
And welling from the violent springs,
Come virtues with their faery dreams:
Bright eyes, and flash of fiery wings.
O piteous eyes, that long and long
To win one welcoming look from God!
O burning brains, and labouring tongue!
O hands that strain, and feet flame-shod!
You grow dim unto death: you grasp
Never the far off wisdom: you
Find not free words: you never clasp
God's hands: you wander the waste through.
Swept down the flooding terror's path,
Into the night the dreamers go:
On earth abide the men of wrath,
For whose delight the stormwinds blow.
So hot the air still: Oh, that morn
Were on me, and with morning, calm!
These tumults of the night downborne,
And peace upon me for a balm!

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Still strong, you visions! For the strip
Of crawling light below the gloom
Shows like the Pit's unfolding lip:
Menace of fire and hungry doom.
Well I know, truth is in my dream,
With sad and haggard countenance:
Red shafts of sullen sunrise gleam,
And slowly the fierce hours advance.
1888.