The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems By Gerald Massey. Fifth Edition, Revised and Enlarged |
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| POLITICAL LYRICS. |
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 | The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems |  |
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POLITICAL LYRICS.
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EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT.
People of England, rouse ye from your dreaming!
Sinew your souls for Freedom's glorious leap:
Look to the Future, where our day-spring 's gleaming:
Lo! a pulse stirs that never more shall sleep
In the world's heart. Men's eyes flash wide with wonder!
The Robbers tremble in their mightiest tower,
Strange words roll o'er their souls with wheels of thunder,
The leaves from Royalty's tree fall hour by hour,—
Earthquakes leap in our Temples, crumbling Throne and Power.
Sinew your souls for Freedom's glorious leap:
Look to the Future, where our day-spring 's gleaming:
Lo! a pulse stirs that never more shall sleep
In the world's heart. Men's eyes flash wide with wonder!
The Robbers tremble in their mightiest tower,
Strange words roll o'er their souls with wheels of thunder,
The leaves from Royalty's tree fall hour by hour,—
Earthquakes leap in our Temples, crumbling Throne and Power.
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Vampyres have drain'd the human heart's best blood,
Kings robb'd, and Priests have curst us in God's name:
Out in the midnight of the Past we've stood—
While fiends of darkness plied their hellish game.
We have been worshipping a gilded crown,
Which drew heaven's lightning-laughter on our head;
Chains fell on us as we were bowing down;
We deem'd our Gods divine, but lo! instead—
They are but painted clay,—with morn the charm has fled!
Kings robb'd, and Priests have curst us in God's name:
Out in the midnight of the Past we've stood—
While fiends of darkness plied their hellish game.
We have been worshipping a gilded crown,
Which drew heaven's lightning-laughter on our head;
Chains fell on us as we were bowing down;
We deem'd our Gods divine, but lo! instead—
They are but painted clay,—with morn the charm has fled!
And this is merry England,—cradling-place
Of souls self-deified and glory-crown'd!
Where smiles made splendour in the Peasant's face,
And Justice reign'd—Her awful eyes close-bound!
Where Toil with open brow went on light-hearted,
And twain in love Law never thrust apart?
How is the glory of our life departed
From us, who sit and nurse our bleeding smart;
And slink, afraid to break the laws that break the heart!
Of souls self-deified and glory-crown'd!
Where smiles made splendour in the Peasant's face,
And Justice reign'd—Her awful eyes close-bound!
Where Toil with open brow went on light-hearted,
And twain in love Law never thrust apart?
How is the glory of our life departed
From us, who sit and nurse our bleeding smart;
And slink, afraid to break the laws that break the heart!
Husht be the Herald on the walls of fame,
Trumping this People as their Country's pride;
Weep rather, with your souls on fire with shame:
See ye not how the palaced knaves deride
Us flatter'd fools? how priestcraft, strong and stealthy,
Stabs at our freedom through its veil of night,
And grinds the poor to flush its coffers wealthy?
Hear how the land groans in the grip of Might,
Then quaff your cup of Wrongs, and laud a Briton's “Right.”
Trumping this People as their Country's pride;
Weep rather, with your souls on fire with shame:
See ye not how the palaced knaves deride
Us flatter'd fools? how priestcraft, strong and stealthy,
Stabs at our freedom through its veil of night,
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Hear how the land groans in the grip of Might,
Then quaff your cup of Wrongs, and laud a Briton's “Right.”
There's not a spot in all this flowery land,
Where Tyranny's cursed brand-mark has not been:
O! were it not for its all-blasting hand,
Dear Christ, what a sweet heaven this might have been!
Has it not hunted forth our spirits brave,—
Kill'd the red rose of health that crown'd our daughters,
Wedded our living hopes unto the grave,—
Filled happy homes with strife, the world with slaughters,
And turn'd our thoughts to blood—to gall, the heart's sweet waters?
Where Tyranny's cursed brand-mark has not been:
O! were it not for its all-blasting hand,
Dear Christ, what a sweet heaven this might have been!
Has it not hunted forth our spirits brave,—
Kill'd the red rose of health that crown'd our daughters,
Wedded our living hopes unto the grave,—
Filled happy homes with strife, the world with slaughters,
And turn'd our thoughts to blood—to gall, the heart's sweet waters?
Where is the spirit of our ancient Sires,
Who, bleeding, wrung their Rights from tyrannies olden?
God-spirits have been here, for Freedom fires
From out their ashes, to earth's heart enfolden;
The mighty dead lie slumbering around,—
Whose names thrill thro' us as Gods were in the air;
Life leaps from where their dust makes holy ground:
Their deeds spring forth in glory,—live all-where,—
But we are traitors to the trust they bade us bear.
Who, bleeding, wrung their Rights from tyrannies olden?
God-spirits have been here, for Freedom fires
From out their ashes, to earth's heart enfolden;
The mighty dead lie slumbering around,—
Whose names thrill thro' us as Gods were in the air;
Life leaps from where their dust makes holy ground:
Their deeds spring forth in glory,—live all-where,—
But we are traitors to the trust they bade us bear.
Go forth, when Night is husht, and heaven is clothéd
With smiling stars that in God's presence roll,
Feel the stirr'd spirit leap to them betrothéd,
As Angel-wings were fanning in the soul;
Feel the hot tears flood in the eyes upturning,
The tide of goodness heave its brightest waves,—
Then suddenly crush the grand and God-ward yearning
With the mad thought that ye are bounden slaves!
O! how long will ye make your hearts its living graves?
With smiling stars that in God's presence roll,
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As Angel-wings were fanning in the soul;
Feel the hot tears flood in the eyes upturning,
The tide of goodness heave its brightest waves,—
Then suddenly crush the grand and God-ward yearning
With the mad thought that ye are bounden slaves!
O! how long will ye make your hearts its living graves?
Immortal Liberty! we see thee stand
Like Morn just stept from heaven upon a mountain
With beautiful feet, and blessing-laden hand,
And heart that welleth Love's most living fountain!
O! when wilt thou string on the People's lyre
Joy's broken chord? and on the People's brow
Set Empire's crown? light up thy beacon-fire
Within their hearts, with an undying glow;
Nor give us blood for milk, as men are drunk with now?
Like Morn just stept from heaven upon a mountain
With beautiful feet, and blessing-laden hand,
And heart that welleth Love's most living fountain!
O! when wilt thou string on the People's lyre
Joy's broken chord? and on the People's brow
Set Empire's crown? light up thy beacon-fire
Within their hearts, with an undying glow;
Nor give us blood for milk, as men are drunk with now?
Curst, curst be war, the World's most fatal glory!
Ye wakening nations, burst its guilty thrall!
Time waits with out-stretcht hand to shroud the gory
Grim glaive of strife behind Oblivion's pall.
The Tyrant laughs at swords, the cannon's rattle
Thunders no terror on his murderous soul.
Thought, Mind, must conquer Might, and in this battle
The Warrior's cuirass, or the Sophist's stole,
Shall blunt no lance of light, no onset backward roll.
Ye wakening nations, burst its guilty thrall!
Time waits with out-stretcht hand to shroud the gory
Grim glaive of strife behind Oblivion's pall.
The Tyrant laughs at swords, the cannon's rattle
Thunders no terror on his murderous soul.
Thought, Mind, must conquer Might, and in this battle
The Warrior's cuirass, or the Sophist's stole,
Shall blunt no lance of light, no onset backward roll.
Old Poets tell us of a golden age,
When earth was guiltless,—Gods the guests of men,
Ere sin had dimm'd the heart's illumined page,—
And Sinai-voices say 't will come again.
O! happy age! when Love shall rule the heart,
And time to live shall be the poor man's dower,
When Martyrs bleed no more, nor Exiles smart,—
Mind is the only diadem of power.—
People, it ripens now! awake! and strike the hour.
When earth was guiltless,—Gods the guests of men,
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And Sinai-voices say 't will come again.
O! happy age! when Love shall rule the heart,
And time to live shall be the poor man's dower,
When Martyrs bleed no more, nor Exiles smart,—
Mind is the only diadem of power.—
People, it ripens now! awake! and strike the hour.
Hearts, high and mighty, gather in our cause;
Bless, bless, O God, and crown their earnest labour,
Who dauntless fight to win us equal laws,
With mental armour, and with spirit-sabre!
Bless, bless, O God! the proud intelligence,
That like a sun dawns on the People's forehead,—
Humanity springs from them like incense,
The Future bursts upon them, boundless—starried—
They weep repentant tears, that they so long have tarried.
Bless, bless, O God, and crown their earnest labour,
Who dauntless fight to win us equal laws,
With mental armour, and with spirit-sabre!
Bless, bless, O God! the proud intelligence,
That like a sun dawns on the People's forehead,—
Humanity springs from them like incense,
The Future bursts upon them, boundless—starried—
They weep repentant tears, that they so long have tarried.
A CRY OF THE PEOPLES.
Like a strong man in torture, the weary world turneth,
To clutch Freedom's robe round her slavery's starkness:
With shame and with shudder, poor Mother! she yearneth
O'er wrongs that are done in her dearth and her darkness.
O gather thy strength up, and crush the Abhorréd,
Who murder thy poor heart, and drain thy life-springs,—
And are crownéd to hide the Cain-brand on their forehead:
O let them be last of the Queens and the Kings!
To clutch Freedom's robe round her slavery's starkness:
With shame and with shudder, poor Mother! she yearneth
O'er wrongs that are done in her dearth and her darkness.
O gather thy strength up, and crush the Abhorréd,
Who murder thy poor heart, and drain thy life-springs,—
And are crownéd to hide the Cain-brand on their forehead:
O let them be last of the Queens and the Kings!
By the lovers and friends we have tenderly cherisht,
Who made the Cause soar up like flame at their breath,
Who struggled like Gods met in fight, and have perisht
In poverty's battle with grim daily death:
O, by all dear ones that bitterly plead for us—
Life-flowers tied up in the heart's breaking strings—
Sisters that weep for us—mothers that bleed for us—
Let these be last of the Queens and the Kings!
Who made the Cause soar up like flame at their breath,
Who struggled like Gods met in fight, and have perisht
In poverty's battle with grim daily death:
O, by all dear ones that bitterly plead for us—
Life-flowers tied up in the heart's breaking strings—
Sisters that weep for us—mothers that bleed for us—
Let these be last of the Queens and the Kings!
Sun and Rain kindle greenly the graves of our Martyrs,
Ye might not tell where the brave blood ran like rain!
But there it burns ever! and heaven's weeping waters
And branding suns never shall whiten the stain!
Remember the hurtling the Tyrants have wrought us,
And smite till each helm bravely flashes and rings!
Life for life, blood for blood, is the lesson they've taught us,
And be these the last of the Queens and the Kings!
Ye might not tell where the brave blood ran like rain!
But there it burns ever! and heaven's weeping waters
And branding suns never shall whiten the stain!
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And smite till each helm bravely flashes and rings!
Life for life, blood for blood, is the lesson they've taught us,
And be these the last of the Queens and the Kings!
Ho! weary Nightwatch, is there light on the summit?
Yearner up through the Night, say, is there hope?
For deeper in darkness than fathom of plummet,
Our Bark thro' the tempest doth stagger and grope!
“To God's unforgiven, to caitiff and craven—
To Crown and to Sceptre, a cleaving curse clings:
Ye must fling them from deck, would ye steer into haven,
For Death tracks the last of the Queens and the Kings!”
Yearner up through the Night, say, is there hope?
For deeper in darkness than fathom of plummet,
Our Bark thro' the tempest doth stagger and grope!
“To God's unforgiven, to caitiff and craven—
To Crown and to Sceptre, a cleaving curse clings:
Ye must fling them from deck, would ye steer into haven,
For Death tracks the last of the Queens and the Kings!”
OUR LAND.
'Tis the Land that our stalwart fore-sires trode,
Where the brave and heroic-soul'd
Implanted our freedom with their best blood,
In the martyr-days of old.
The huts of the lowly gave Liberty birth,
Their hearts were her cradle glorious,
And wherever her foot-prints letter'd the earth,
Great spirits up-sprang victorious,
In our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave,
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.
Where the brave and heroic-soul'd
Implanted our freedom with their best blood,
In the martyr-days of old.
The huts of the lowly gave Liberty birth,
Their hearts were her cradle glorious,
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Great spirits up-sprang victorious,
In our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave,
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.
Alfred was of us, and Shakespeare's thought
Bekings us, all crowns above!
And Freedom's dear faith a fresh splendour caught
From our grand old Milton's love!
And we should be marching on gallantly,
And striding from glory to glory,
For the Right with our Might striking valiantly,
On the track of the famous in story—
For our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave,
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.
Bekings us, all crowns above!
And Freedom's dear faith a fresh splendour caught
From our grand old Milton's love!
And we should be marching on gallantly,
And striding from glory to glory,
For the Right with our Might striking valiantly,
On the track of the famous in story—
For our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave,
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.
On Naseby-field of the fight sublime,
Our old red Rose doth blow!
Would to God that the soul of that earlier time
Might marshal us conquering now!
On into the Future's fair clime the world sweeps,
And the time trumpets true men to freedom:
At the heart of our helots the mounting God leaps,
But O for the Moses to lead 'em!
For our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave!
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.
Our old red Rose doth blow!
Would to God that the soul of that earlier time
Might marshal us conquering now!
On into the Future's fair clime the world sweeps,
And the time trumpets true men to freedom:
At the heart of our helots the mounting God leaps,
But O for the Moses to lead 'em!
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With its memories bright and brave!
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.
What do we lack, that the ruffian Wrong
Should starve us 'mid heaps of gold?
We have brains as broad, we have arms as strong,
We have hearts as big and as bold!
Will a thousand years more of meek suffering school
Our lives to a sterner bravery?
No! down and down with their robber rule,
And up from the land of slavery!
For our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave!
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.
Should starve us 'mid heaps of gold?
We have brains as broad, we have arms as strong,
We have hearts as big and as bold!
Will a thousand years more of meek suffering school
Our lives to a sterner bravery?
No! down and down with their robber rule,
And up from the land of slavery!
For our rare old Land, our dear old Land,
With its memories bright and brave!
And sing hey for the hour its sons shall band
To free it of Tyrant and Slave.
THE LORDS OF LAND AND MONEY.
Sons of Old England, from the sod,
Up-lift the noble brow!
Gold apes a mightier power than God,
And wealth is worshipt now!
In all these toil-ennobled lands
Ye have no heritage;
They snatch the fruit of youthful hands,
The staff from weary age.
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.
Up-lift the noble brow!
Gold apes a mightier power than God,
And wealth is worshipt now!
In all these toil-ennobled lands
Ye have no heritage;
They snatch the fruit of youthful hands,
The staff from weary age.
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These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.
Thro' long dark years of blood and tears,
We've toil'd like branded slaves,
Till Wrong's red hand hath made a land
Of paupers, prisons, graves!
But our long-sufferance endeth now,
Within the souls of men
The fruitful buds of promise blow,
And Freedom lives again!
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.
We've toil'd like branded slaves,
Till Wrong's red hand hath made a land
Of paupers, prisons, graves!
But our long-sufferance endeth now,
Within the souls of men
The fruitful buds of promise blow,
And Freedom lives again!
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.
Too long have Labour's nobles knelt
Before exalted “Rank;”
Within our souls the iron is felt—
We hear our fetters clank!
A glorious voice goes throbbing forth
From millions stirring now,
Who yet before these Gods of earth
Shall stand with unblencht brow.
O tell them in their Palaces,
These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.
Before exalted “Rank;”
Within our souls the iron is felt—
We hear our fetters clank!
A glorious voice goes throbbing forth
From millions stirring now,
Who yet before these Gods of earth
Shall stand with unblencht brow.
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These Lords of Land and Money!
They shall not kill the poor like bees,
To rob them of Life's honey.
THE DESERTER FROM THE CAUSE.
He is gone: better so. We should know who stand under
Our Banner: let none but the trusty remain!
For there's stern work at hand, and the time comes shall sunder
The shell from the pearl, and the chaff from the grain!
And the heart that thro' danger and death will be dutiful—
Soul that with Cranmer in fire would shake hands,
With a Life, like a palace-home built for the Beautiful—
Freedom of all her Beloved demands!
Our Banner: let none but the trusty remain!
For there's stern work at hand, and the time comes shall sunder
The shell from the pearl, and the chaff from the grain!
And the heart that thro' danger and death will be dutiful—
Soul that with Cranmer in fire would shake hands,
With a Life, like a palace-home built for the Beautiful—
Freedom of all her Beloved demands!
He is gone from us! Yet shall we march on victorious,
Hearts burning like Beacons—eyes fixt on the Goal!
And if we fall fighting, we fall like the Glorious;
With face to the Stars, and all heaven in the soul!
And aye for the brave stir of battle we'll barter
The sword of life sheatht in the peace of the grave:
And better the fieriest fate of the Martyr,
Than live like the Coward, and die like the Slave!
Hearts burning like Beacons—eyes fixt on the Goal!
And if we fall fighting, we fall like the Glorious;
With face to the Stars, and all heaven in the soul!
And aye for the brave stir of battle we'll barter
The sword of life sheatht in the peace of the grave:
And better the fieriest fate of the Martyr,
Than live like the Coward, and die like the Slave!
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ALL'S RIGHT WITH THE WORLD.
Sweet Phosphor tricks to a smile the brow of heaven,
Dawn's golden springs surge into floods of day,
Lush-leavy woods break into singing, Earth
From dewy dark rolls round her balmy side,
And all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
Dawn's golden springs surge into floods of day,
Lush-leavy woods break into singing, Earth
From dewy dark rolls round her balmy side,
And all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
Spring with a tender beauty clothes the earth,
Happy, and jewell'd like a sumptuous Bride,
As tho' she knew no sorrow—held no grave:
No glory dims for all the hearts that break,
And all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
Happy, and jewell'd like a sumptuous Bride,
As tho' she knew no sorrow—held no grave:
No glory dims for all the hearts that break,
And all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
Birds sing as sweetly on the blossom'd boughs,
Suns mount as royally their sapphire throne,
Stars bud in gorgeous gloom, and harvests yield,
As tho' man nestled in the lap of Love:
All, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
Suns mount as royally their sapphire throne,
Stars bud in gorgeous gloom, and harvests yield,
As tho' man nestled in the lap of Love:
All, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
But slip this silken-folded mask aside,
And lo, Hell welters at our very feet!
The Poor are murder'd body and soul, the Rich
In Pleasure's chalice melt their pearl of life!
Ay, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
And lo, Hell welters at our very feet!
The Poor are murder'd body and soul, the Rich
In Pleasure's chalice melt their pearl of life!
Ay, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
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Lean out into the looming Future, mark
The battle roll across the night to come!
“See how we right our Wrongs at last,” Revenge
Writes with red radiance on the midnight heaven:
Yet, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
The battle roll across the night to come!
“See how we right our Wrongs at last,” Revenge
Writes with red radiance on the midnight heaven:
Yet, all goes right, and merrily, with the world.
So Sodom, grim old Reveller! went to death.
Voluptuous Music throbb'd thro' all her courts,
Mirth wanton'd at her heart, one pulse before
Fire-tongues told out her bloody tale of wrong,—
And all went right, and merrily, with the world.
Voluptuous Music throbb'd thro' all her courts,
Mirth wanton'd at her heart, one pulse before
Fire-tongues told out her bloody tale of wrong,—
And all went right, and merrily, with the world.
THE AWAKENING OF THE PEOPLE.
O sweet is the fair face of Nature, when Spring
With living flower-rainbow in glory hath spann'd
Hill and dale; and the music of birds on the wing
Makes earth seem a beautiful faëry land!
And dear is our first-love's young spirit-wed bride,
With her meek eyes just sheathing in tender eclipse,
When the sound of our voice calls her heart's ruddy tide
Up in beauty to melt on her cheeks and her lips.
But Earth has no sight half so glorious to see,
As a People up-girding its might to be free.
With living flower-rainbow in glory hath spann'd
Hill and dale; and the music of birds on the wing
Makes earth seem a beautiful faëry land!
And dear is our first-love's young spirit-wed bride,
With her meek eyes just sheathing in tender eclipse,
When the sound of our voice calls her heart's ruddy tide
Up in beauty to melt on her cheeks and her lips.
But Earth has no sight half so glorious to see,
As a People up-girding its might to be free.
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O to see men awake from the slumber of ages,
With brows grim from labour, and hands hard and tan,
Start up living heroes, the dreamt-of by Sages!
And smite with strong arm the oppressors of man:
To see them come dauntless forth 'mid the world's warring,
Slaves of the midnight-mine! serfs of the sod!
Show how the Eternal within them is stirring,
And never more bend to a crownéd clod:
Dear God! 'tis a sight for Immortals to see,—
A People up-girding its might to be free.
With brows grim from labour, and hands hard and tan,
Start up living heroes, the dreamt-of by Sages!
And smite with strong arm the oppressors of man:
To see them come dauntless forth 'mid the world's warring,
Slaves of the midnight-mine! serfs of the sod!
Show how the Eternal within them is stirring,
And never more bend to a crownéd clod:
Dear God! 'tis a sight for Immortals to see,—
A People up-girding its might to be free.
Battle on bravely, O sons of humanity!
Dash down the cup from your lips, O ye Toilers!
Too long hath the world bled for tyrants' insanity—
Too long our weakness been strength to our spoilers.
For Freedom and Right, gallant hearts, wrestle ever,
And speak ye to others the proud words that won ye:
Your rights conquer'd once, shall be wrung from you never;
O battle on bravely; the world's eyes are on ye;
And Earth has no sight half so glorious to see,
As a People up-girding its might to be free!
Dash down the cup from your lips, O ye Toilers!
Too long hath the world bled for tyrants' insanity—
Too long our weakness been strength to our spoilers.
For Freedom and Right, gallant hearts, wrestle ever,
And speak ye to others the proud words that won ye:
Your rights conquer'd once, shall be wrung from you never;
O battle on bravely; the world's eyes are on ye;
And Earth has no sight half so glorious to see,
As a People up-girding its might to be free!
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THE WORKER.
I care not a curse though from birth he inherit
The tear-bitter bread and the stingings of scorn,
If the man be but one of God's nobles in spirit,—
Though penniless, richly-soul'd,—heartsome, though worn—
And will not for golden bribe lout it or flatter,
But clings to the Right aye, as steel to the pole:
He may sweat at the plough, loom, or anvil, no matter,
I'll own him the man that is dear to my soul.
The tear-bitter bread and the stingings of scorn,
If the man be but one of God's nobles in spirit,—
Though penniless, richly-soul'd,—heartsome, though worn—
And will not for golden bribe lout it or flatter,
But clings to the Right aye, as steel to the pole:
He may sweat at the plough, loom, or anvil, no matter,
I'll own him the man that is dear to my soul.
His hand may be hard, and his raiment be tatter'd,
On straw-pallet nightly his weary limbs rest;
If his brow wear the stamp of a spirit unfetter'd,
I'm mining at once for the gems in his breast.
Give me the true man, who will fear not nor falter,
Though Want be his guerdon, the Workhouse his goal,
Till his heart has burnt out upon Liberty's Altar:
For this is the man I hold dear to my soul.
On straw-pallet nightly his weary limbs rest;
If his brow wear the stamp of a spirit unfetter'd,
I'm mining at once for the gems in his breast.
Give me the true man, who will fear not nor falter,
Though Want be his guerdon, the Workhouse his goal,
Till his heart has burnt out upon Liberty's Altar:
For this is the man I hold dear to my soul.
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True hearts, in this brave world of blessings and beauty,
Aye scorn the poor splendour of losel and lurker;
And Toil is creation's crown, worship is duty,
And greater than Gods in old days is the Worker.
For us the wealth-laden world laboureth ever;
For us harvests ripen, winds blow, waters roll;
And him who gives back in his might of endeavour,
I'll cherish,—a man ever dear to my soul.
Aye scorn the poor splendour of losel and lurker;
And Toil is creation's crown, worship is duty,
And greater than Gods in old days is the Worker.
For us the wealth-laden world laboureth ever;
For us harvests ripen, winds blow, waters roll;
And him who gives back in his might of endeavour,
I'll cherish,—a man ever dear to my soul.
| The ballad of Babe Christabel with other Lyrical Poems | |