And Longing moulds in clay what | There seemed no strength in the With our poor earthward striv- And stared around for God with So grew and gathered through the They reared to thee such symbol spire A Vengeance, axe in hand, Not first on palace and cathedral that stood Holding a tyrant's head up by the Quivers and gleams that unconclotted hair. III suming fire; While these stand black against her morning skies, What wrongs the Oppressor suf- The peasant sees it leap from fered, these we know; These have found piteous voice in song and prose; But for the Oppressed, their dark- Own with cool tears its influence ness and their woe, Their grinding centuries, - what Though hall and palace had nor eyes nor ears, mother-meek; It lights the poet's heart up like a star; Ah! while the tyrant deemed it still afar, Hardening a people's heart to And twined with golden threads senseless stone, Thou knewest them, O Earth, that drank their tears, 40 his futile snare, That swift, convicting glow all round him ran; O Heaven, that heard their inar-'T was close beside him there, Rude was their score, as suits O Broker-King, is this thy wis 'T was Atë, not Urania, held the Could eighteen years strike down Throbs in its framework the Slippery the feet that mount by stairs of gold, Slow are the steps of Freedom, but And weakest of all fences one of her feet Turn never backward: hers no bloody glare; steel; Go and keep school again like him of old, Her light is calm, and innocent, The Syracusan tyrant; - thou And where it enters there is no Royal amid a birch-swayed com despair: monweal! 80 VI Not long can he be ruler who allows His time to run before him; thou wast naught There I behold a Nation: The France which lies 110 Between the Pyrenees and Rhine Is the least part of France; Soon as the strip of gold about thy I see her rather in the soul whose shine brows Was no more emblem of the Burns through the craftsman's grimy countenance, In the new energy divine Of Toil's enfranchised glance. People's thought: Vain were thy bayonets against the foe Is here no triumph? Nay, what Throbbing, as throbs the bosom, though The yellow blood of Trade mean while should pour Along its arteries a shrunken flow, And the idle canvas droop around the shore? These do not make a state, I think God made The earth for man, not trade; 100 And where each humblest human creature Can stand, no more suspicious or afraid, Erect and kingly in his right of nature, To heaven and earth knit with harmonious ties, Where I behold the exultation Of manhood glowing in those sies; 'Tis a dream! 'Tis a vision!' Shrieks Mammon aghast; 'The day's broad derision Will chase it at last; PRAISEST Law, friend? We, too, love it much as they that love it best; 'Tis the deep, august foundation, whereon Peace and Justice rest; On the rock primeval, hidden in the Past its bases be, Block by block the endeavoring Ages built it up to what we see. But dig down: the Old unbury; thou shalt find on every stone Surely as the unconscious needle feels the far-off loadstar draw, 10 As their gods were, so their laws were; Thor the strong could reave and steal, So through many a peaceful inlet tore the Norseman's eager keel; But a new law came when Christ came, and not blameless, as before, Can we, paying him our lip-tithes, give our lives and faiths to Thor. Law is holy ay, but what law? Is there nothing more divine Than the patched-up broils of Congress, venal, full of meat and wine? Is there, say you, nothing higher? Naught, God save us! that transcends Laws of cotton texture, wove by vulgar men for vulgar ends? Did Jehovah ask their counsel, or submit to them a plan, Law is holy; but not your law, ye who keep the tablets whole Give to Cæsar what is Cæsar's? yes, but tell me, if you can, It was not to such a future that the Mayflower's prow was turned, Not to such a faith the martyrs clung, exulting as they burned; Not by such laws are men fashioned, earnest, simple, valiant, great In the household virtues whereon rests the unconquerable state. Ah! there is a higher gospel, overhead the God-roof springs, 20 30 40 Think you Truth a farthing rushlight, to be pinched out when you will With your deft official fingers, and your politicians' skill? That his block eyes may not see you do the thing that is not right? But the Destinies think not so; to their judgment-chamber lone Patient are they as the insects that build islands in the deep; 50 were not just; Lo! the skulking wild fox scratches in a little heap of dust. |