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diff --git a/3262-0.txt b/3262-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fef60d0 --- /dev/null +++ b/3262-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2590 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Pilgrims of Hope and Chants for +Socialists, by William Morris + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: The Pilgrims of Hope and Chants for Socialists + + +Author: William Morris + + + +Release Date: October 5, 2014 [eBook #3262] +[This file was first posted on March 2, 2001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PILGRIMS OF HOPE AND CHANTS +FOR SOCIALISTS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1915 Longmans, Green and Company edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + + + +THE PILGRIMS OF HOPE +AND +CHANTS FOR SOCIALISTS + + + BY + WILLIAM MORRIS + + * * * * * + + LONGMANS, GREEN & COMPANY + 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON + FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK + BOMBAY, CALCUTTA, AND MADRAS + 1915 + + All rights reserved + + + + +FORWARD + + +“The Pilgrims of Hope” appeared in _The Commonweal_ between March 1885 +and July 1886, its title being decided on with the publication of the +second part. Sections I, IV, and VIII were included in _Poems by the +Way_ after the author abandoned his intention of revising it as a whole. +“To be concluded” stands at the bottom of the last instalment. + +“Chants for Socialists,” consisting of songs and poems written for +various occasions and collected into a penny pamphlet published by the +Socialist League in 1885, is here printed entire (with the exception of +“The Message of the March Wind,” pp. 3–6), although “The Day is Coming,” +“The Voice of Toil,” and “All for the Cause,” were included in _Poems by +the Way_. “A Death Song,” which also appears there, was written for the +funeral of Alfred Linnell, who died from injuries received at a +Demonstration in Trafalgar Square on November 20, 1887. It first +appeared in pamphlet form, with a musical setting by Malcolm Lawson. + +“May Day” [1892] and “May Day, 1894,” appeared in _Justice_. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE +PILGRIMS OF HOPE: + THE MESSAGE OF THE MARCH WIND 3 + THE BRIDGE AND THE STREET 7 + SENDING TO THE WAR 11 + MOTHER AND SON 15 + NEW BIRTH 19 + THE NEW PROLETARIAN 24 + IN PRISON—AND AT HOME 30 + THE HALF OF LIFE GONE 35 + A NEW FRIEND 39 + READY TO DEPART 43 + A GLIMPSE OF THE COMING DAY 47 + MEETING THE WAR-MACHINE 51 + THE STORY’S ENDING 54 +CHANTS FOR SOCIALISTS: + THE DAY IS COMING 61 + THE VOICE OF TOIL 65 + NO MASTER 67 + ALL FOR THE CAUSE 68 + THE MARCH OF THE WORKERS 70 + DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN 73 + A DEATH SONG 75 + MAY DAY [1892] 77 + MAY DAY, 1894 80 + + + + +THE PILGRIMS OF HOPE + + +I +THE MESSAGE OF THE MARCH WIND + + + FAIR now is the springtide, now earth lies beholding + With the eyes of a lover the face of the sun; + Long lasteth the daylight, and hope is enfolding + The green-growing acres with increase begun. + + Now sweet, sweet it is through the land to be straying + Mid the birds and the blossoms and the beasts of the field; + Love mingles with love, and no evil is weighing + On thy heart or mine, where all sorrow is healed. + + From township to township, o’er down and by tillage + Far, far have we wandered and long was the day, + But now cometh eve at the end of the village, + Where over the grey wall the church riseth grey. + + There is wind in the twilight; in the white road before us + The straw from the ox-yard is blowing about; + The moon’s rim is rising, a star glitters o’er us, + And the vane on the spire-top is swinging in doubt. + + Down there dips the highway, toward the bridge crossing over + The brook that runs on to the Thames and the sea. + Draw closer, my sweet, we are lover and lover; + This eve art thou given to gladness and me. + + Shall we be glad always? Come closer and hearken: + Three fields further on, as they told me down there, + When the young moon has set, if the March sky should darken, + We might see from the hill-top the great city’s glare. + + Hark, the wind in the elm-boughs! From London it bloweth, + And telling of gold, and of hope and unrest; + Of power that helps not; of wisdom that knoweth, + But teacheth not aught of the worst and the best. + + Of the rich men it telleth, and strange is the story + How they have, and they hanker, and grip far and wide; + And they live and they die, and the earth and its glory + Has been but a burden they scarce might abide. + + Hark! the March wind again of a people is telling; + Of the life that they live there, so haggard and grim, + That if we and our love amidst them had been dwelling + My fondness had faltered, thy beauty grown dim. + + This land we have loved in our love and our leisure + For them hangs in heaven, high out of their reach; + The wide hills o’er the sea-plain for them have no pleasure, + The grey homes of their fathers no story to teach. + + The singers have sung and the builders have builded, + The painters have fashioned their tales of delight; + For what and for whom hath the world’s book been gilded, + When all is for these but the blackness of night? + + How long and for what is their patience abiding? + How oft and how oft shall their story be told, + While the hope that none seeketh in darkness is hiding + And in grief and in sorrow the world groweth old? + + * * * * * + + COME back to the inn, love, and the lights and the fire, + And the fiddler’s old tune and the shuffling of feet; + For there in a while shall be rest and desire, + And there shall the morrow’s uprising be sweet. + + Yet, love, as we wend the wind bloweth behind us + And beareth the last tale it telleth to-night, + How here in the spring-tide the message shall find us; + For the hope that none seeketh is coming to light. + + Like the seed of midwinter, unheeded, unperished, + Like the autumn-sown wheat ’neath the snow lying green, + Like the love that o’ertook us, unawares and uncherished, + Like the babe ’neath thy girdle that groweth unseen, + + So the hope of the people now buddeth and groweth— + Rest fadeth before it, and blindness and fear; + It biddeth us learn all the wisdom it knoweth; + It hath found us and held us, and biddeth us hear: + + For it beareth the message: “Rise up on the morrow + And go on your ways toward the doubt and the strife; + Join hope to our hope and blend sorrow with sorrow, + And seek for men’s love in the short days of life.” + + But lo, the old inn, and the lights and the fire, + And the fiddler’s old tune and the shuffling of feet; + Soon for us shall be quiet and rest and desire, + And to-morrow’s uprising to deeds shall be sweet. + + + +II +THE BRIDGE AND THE STREET + + + IN the midst of the bridge there we stopped and we wondered + In London at last, and the moon going down, + All sullied and red where the mast-wood was sundered + By the void of the night-mist, the breath of the town. + + On each side lay the City, and Thames ran between it + Dark, struggling, unheard ’neath the wheels and the feet. + A strange dream it was that we ever had seen it, + And strange was the hope we had wandered to meet. + + Was all nought but confusion? What man and what master + Had each of these people that hastened along? + Like a flood flowed the faces, and faster and faster + Went the drift of the feet of the hurrying throng. + + Till all these seemed but one thing, and we twain another, + A thing frail and feeble and young and unknown; + What sign mid all these to tell foeman from brother? + What sign of the hope in our hearts that had grown? + + * * * * * + + WE went to our lodging afar from the river, + And slept and forgot—and remembered in dreams; + And friends that I knew not I strove to deliver + From a crowd that swept o’er us in measureless streams, + + Wending whither I knew not: till meseemed I was waking + To the first night in London, and lay by my love, + And she worn and changed, and my very heart aching + With a terror of soul that forbade me to move. + + Till I woke, in good sooth, and she lay there beside me, + Fresh, lovely in sleep; but awhile yet I lay, + For the fear of the dream-tide yet seemed to abide me + In the cold and sad time ere the dawn of the day. + + Then I went to the window, and saw down below me + The market-wains wending adown the dim street, + And the scent of the hay and the herbs seemed to know me, + And seek out my heart the dawn’s sorrow to meet. + + They passed, and day grew, and with pitiless faces + The dull houses stared on the prey they had trapped; + ’Twas as though they had slain all the fair morning places + Where in love and in leisure our joyance had happed. + + My heart sank; I murmured, “What’s this we are doing + In this grim net of London, this prison built stark + With the greed of the ages, our young lives pursuing + A phantom that leads but to death in the dark?” + + Day grew, and no longer was dusk with it striving, + And now here and there a few people went by. + As an image of what was once eager and living + Seemed the hope that had led us to live or to die. + + Yet nought else seemed happy; the past and its pleasure + Was light, and unworthy, had been and was gone; + If hope had deceived us, if hid were its treasure, + Nought now would be left us of all life had won. + + * * * * * + + O LOVE, stand beside me; the sun is uprisen + On the first day of London; and shame hath been here. + For I saw our new life like the bars of a prison, + And hope grew a-cold, and I parleyed with fear. + + Ah! I sadden thy face, and thy grey eyes are chiding! + Yea, but life is no longer as stories of yore; + From us from henceforth no fair words shall be hiding + The nights of the wretched, the days of the poor. + + Time was we have grieved, we have feared, we have faltered, + For ourselves, for each other, while yet we were twain; + And no whit of the world by our sorrow was altered, + Our faintness grieved nothing, our fear was in vain. + + Now our fear and our faintness, our sorrow, our passion, + We shall feel all henceforth as we felt it erewhile; + But now from all this the due deeds we shall fashion + Of the eyes without blindness, the heart without guile. + + Let us grieve then—and help every soul in our sorrow; + Let us fear—and press forward where few dare to go; + Let us falter in hope—and plan deeds for the morrow, + The world crowned with freedom, the fall of the foe. + + As the soldier who goes from his homestead a-weeping, + And whose mouth yet remembers his sweetheart’s embrace, + While all round about him the bullets are sweeping, + But stern and stout-hearted dies there in his place; + + Yea, so let our lives be! e’en such that hereafter, + When the battle is won and the story is told, + Our pain shall be hid, and remembered our laughter, + And our names shall be those of the bright and the bold. + +NOTE.—This section had the following note in _The Commonweal_. It is the +intention of the author to follow the fortunes of the lovers who in the +“Message of the March Wind” were already touched by sympathy with the +cause of the people. + + + +III +SENDING TO THE WAR + + + IT was down in our far-off village that we heard of the war begun, + But none of the neighbours were in it save the squire’s thick-lipped + son, + A youth and a fool and a captain, who came and went away, + And left me glad of his going. There was little for us to say + Of the war and its why and wherefore—and we said it often enough; + The papers gave us our wisdom, and we used it up in the rough. + But I held my peace and wondered; for I thought of the folly of men, + The fair lives ruined and broken that ne’er could be mended again; + And the tale by lies bewildered, and no cause for a man to choose; + Nothing to curse or to bless—just a game to win or to lose. + + But here were the streets of London—strife stalking wide in the world; + And the flag of an ancient people to the battle-breeze unfurled. + And who was helping or heeding? The gaudy shops displayed + The toys of rich men’s folly, by blinded labour made; + And still from naught to nothing the bright-skinned horses drew + Dull men and sleek-faced women with never a deed to do; + While all about and around them the street-flood ebbed and flowed, + Worn feet, grey anxious faces, grey backs bowed ’neath the load. + Lo the sons of an ancient people! And for this they fought and fell + In the days by fame made glorious, in the tale that singers tell. + + We two we stood in the street in the midst of a mighty crowd, + The sound of its mingled murmur in the heavens above was loud, + And earth was foul with its squalor—that stream of every day, + The hurrying feet of labour, the faces worn and grey, + Were a sore and grievous sight, and enough and to spare had I seen + Of hard and pinching want midst our quiet fields and green; + But all was nothing to this, the London holiday throng. + Dull and with hang-dog gait they stood or shuffled along, + While the stench from the lairs they had lain in last night went up in + the wind, + And poisoned the sun-lit spring: no story men can find + Is fit for the tale of their lives; no word that man hath made + Can tell the hue of their faces, or their rags by filth o’er-laid: + For this hath our age invented—these are the sons of the free, + Who shall bear our name triumphant o’er every land and sea. + Read ye their souls in their faces, and what shall help you there? + Joyless, hopeless, shameless, angerless, set is their stare: + This is the thing we have made, and what shall help us now, + For the field hath been laboured and tilled and the teeth of the + dragon shall grow. + + But why are they gathered together? what is this crowd in the street? + This is a holiday morning, though here and there we meet + The hurrying tradesman’s broadcloth, or the workman’s basket of tools. + Men say that at last we are rending the snares of knaves and fools; + That a cry from the heart of the nation against the foe is hurled, + And the flag of an ancient people to the battle-breeze unfurled. + The soldiers are off to the war, we are here to see the sight, + And all our griefs shall be hidden by the thought of our country’s + might. + ’Tis the ordered anger of England and her hope for the good of the + Earth + That we to-day are speeding, and many a gift of worth + Shall follow the brand and the bullet, and our wrath shall be no + curse, + But a blessing of life to the helpless—unless we are liars and worse— + And these that we see are the senders; these are they that speed + The dread and the blessing of England to help the world at its need. + + Sick unto death was my hope, and I turned and looked on my dear, + And beheld her frightened wonder, and her grief without a tear, + And knew how her thought was mine—when, hark! o’er the hubbub and + noise, + Faint and a long way off, the music’s measured voice, + And the crowd was swaying and swaying, and somehow, I knew not why, + A dream came into my heart of deliverance drawing anigh. + Then with roll and thunder of drums grew the music louder and loud, + And the whole street tumbled and surged, and cleft was the holiday + crowd, + Till two walls of faces and rags lined either side of the way. + Then clamour of shouts rose upward, as bright and glittering gay + Came the voiceful brass of the band, and my heart beat fast and fast, + For the river of steel came on, and the wrath of England passed + Through the want and the woe of the town, and strange and wild was my + thought, + And my clenched hands wandered about as though a weapon they sought. + + Hubbub and din was behind them, and the shuffling haggard throng, + Wandering aimless about, tangled the street for long; + But the shouts and the rhythmic noise we still heard far away, + And my dream was become a picture of the deeds of another day. + Far and far was I borne, away o’er the years to come, + And again was the ordered march, and the thunder of the drum, + And the bickering points of steel, and the horses shifting about + ’Neath the flashing swords of the captains—then the silence after the + shout— + Sun and wind in the street, familiar things made clear, + Made strange by the breathless waiting for the deeds that are drawing + anear. + For woe had grown into will, and wrath was bared of its sheath, + And stark in the streets of London stood the crop of the dragon’s + teeth. + Where then in my dream were the poor and the wall of faces wan? + Here and here by my side, shoulder to shoulder of man, + Hope in the simple folk, hope in the hearts of the wise, + For the happy life to follow, or death and the ending of lies, + Hope is awake in the faces angerless now no more, + Till the new peace dawn on the world, the fruit of the people’s war. + + War in the world abroad a thousand leagues away, + While custom’s wheel goes round and day devoureth day. + Peace at home!—what peace, while the rich man’s mill is strife, + And the poor is the grist that he grindeth, and life devoureth life? + + + +IV +MOTHER AND SON + + + NOW sleeps the land of houses, and dead night holds the street, + And there thou liest, my baby, and sleepest soft and sweet; + My man is away for awhile, but safe and alone we lie; + And none heareth thy breath but thy mother, and the moon looking down + from the sky + On the weary waste of the town, as it looked on the grass-edged road + Still warm with yesterday’s sun, when I left my old abode, + Hand in hand with my love, that night of all nights in the year; + When the river of love o’erflowed and drowned all doubt and fear, + And we two were alone in the world, and once, if never again, + We knew of the secret of earth and the tale of its labour and pain. + + Lo amidst London I lift thee, and how little and light thou art, + And thou without hope or fear, thou fear and hope of my heart! + Lo here thy body beginning, O son, and thy soul and thy life; + But how will it be if thou livest, and enterest into the strife, + And in love we dwell together when the man is grown in thee, + When thy sweet speech I shall hearken, and yet ’twixt thee and me + Shall rise that wall of distance, that round each one doth grow, + And maketh it hard and bitter each other’s thought to know? + Now, therefore, while yet thou art little and hast no thought of thine + own, + I will tell thee a word of the world, of the hope whence thou hast + grown, + + Of the love that once begat thee, of the sorrow that hath made + Thy little heart of hunger, and thy hands on my bosom laid. + Then mayst thou remember hereafter, as whiles when people say + All this hath happened before in the life of another day; + So mayst thou dimly remember this tale of thy mother’s voice, + As oft in the calm of dawning I have heard the birds rejoice, + As oft I have heard the storm-wind go moaning through the wood, + And I knew that earth was speaking, and the mother’s voice was good. + + Now, to thee alone will I tell it that thy mother’s body is fair, + In the guise of the country maidens who play with the sun and the air, + Who have stood in the row of the reapers in the August afternoon, + Who have sat by the frozen water in the highday of the moon, + When the lights of the Christmas feasting were dead in the house on + the hill, + And the wild geese gone to the salt marsh had left the winter still. + Yea, I am fair, my firstling; if thou couldst but remember me! + The hair that thy small hand clutcheth is a goodly sight to see; + I am true, but my face is a snare; soft and deep are my eyes, + And they seem for men’s beguiling fulfilled with the dreams of the + wise. + Kind are my lips, and they look as though my soul had learned + Deep things I have never heard of. My face and my hands are burned + By the lovely sun of the acres; three months of London-town + And thy birth-bed have bleached them indeed—“But lo, where the edge of + the gown” + (So said thy father one day) “parteth the wrist white as curd + From the brown of the hands that I love, bright as the wing of a + bird.” + + Such is thy mother, O firstling, yet strong as the maidens of old, + Whose spears and whose swords were the warders of homestead, of field + and of fold. + Oft were my feet on the highway, often they wearied the grass; + From dusk unto dusk of the summer three times in a week would I pass + To the downs from the house on the river through the waves of the + blossoming corn. + Fair then I lay down in the even, and fresh I arose on the morn, + And scarce in the noon was I weary. Ah, son, in the days of thy + strife, + If thy soul could harbour a dream of the blossom of my life! + It would be as sunlit meadows beheld from a tossing sea, + And thy soul should look on a vision of the peace that is to be. + + Yet, yet the tears on my cheek! And what is this doth move + My heart to thy heart, beloved, save the flood of yearning love? + For fair and fierce is thy father, and soft and strange are his eyes + That look on the days that shall be with the hope of the brave and the + wise. + It was many a day that we laughed as over the meadows we walked, + And many a day I hearkened and the pictures came as he talked; + It was many a day that we longed, and we lingered late at eve + Ere speech from speech was sundered, and my hand his hand could leave. + Then I wept when I was alone, and I longed till the daylight came; + And down the stairs I stole, and there was our housekeeping dame + (No mother of me, the foundling) kindling the fire betimes + Ere the haymaking folk went forth to the meadows down by the limes; + All things I saw at a glance; the quickening fire-tongues leapt + Through the crackling heap of sticks, and the sweet smoke up from it + crept, + And close to the very hearth the low sun flooded the floor, + And the cat and her kittens played in the sun by the open door. + The garden was fair in the morning, and there in the road he stood + Beyond the crimson daisies and the bush of southernwood. + Then side by side together through the grey-walled place we went, + And O the fear departed, and the rest and sweet content! + + SON, sorrow and wisdom he taught me, and sore I grieved and learned + As we twain grew into one; and the heart within me burned + With the very hopes of his heart. Ah, son, it is piteous, + But never again in my life shall I dare to speak to thee thus; + So may these lonely words about thee creep and cling, + These words of the lonely night in the days of our wayfaring. + Many a child of woman to-night is born in the town, + The desert of folly and wrong; and of what and whence are they grown? + Many and many an one of wont and use is born; + For a husband is taken to bed as a hat or a ribbon is worn. + Prudence begets her thousands: “Good is a housekeeper’s life, + So shall I sell my body that I may be matron and wife.” + “And I shall endure foul wedlock and bear the children of need.” + Some are there born of hate—many the children of greed. + “I, I too can be wedded, though thou my love hast got.” + “I am fair and hard of heart, and riches shall be my lot.” + And all these are the good and the happy, on whom the world dawns + fair. + O son, when wilt thou learn of those that are born of despair, + As the fabled mud of the Nile that quickens under the sun + With a growth of creeping things, half dead when just begun? + E’en such is the care of Nature that man should never die, + Though she breed of the fools of the earth, and the dregs of the city + sty. + But thou, O son, O son, of very love wert born, + When our hope fulfilled bred hope, and fear was a folly outworn; + On the eve of the toil and the battle all sorrow and grief we weighed, + We hoped and we were not ashamed, we knew and we were not afraid. + + Now waneth the night and the moon—ah, son, it is piteous + That never again in my life shall I dare to speak to thee thus. + But sure from the wise and the simple shall the mighty come to birth; + And fair were my fate, beloved, if I be yet on the earth + When the world is awaken at last, and from mouth to mouth they tell + Of thy love and thy deeds and thy valour, and thy hope that nought can + quell. + + + +V +NEW BIRTH + + + IT was twenty-five years ago that I lay in my mother’s lap + New born to life, nor knowing one whit of all that should hap: + That day was I won from nothing to the world of struggle and pain, + Twenty-five years ago—and to-night am I born again. + + I look and behold the days of the years that are passed away, + And my soul is full of their wealth, for oft were they blithe and gay + As the hours of bird and of beast: they have made me calm and strong + To wade the stream of confusion, the river of grief and wrong. + + A rich man was my father, but he skulked ere I was born, + And gave my mother money, but left her life to scorn; + And we dwelt alone in our village: I knew not my mother’s “shame,” + But her love and her wisdom I knew till death and the parting came. + Then a lawyer paid me money, and I lived awhile at a school, + And learned the lore of the ancients, and how the knave and the fool + Have been mostly the masters of earth: yet the earth seemed fair and + good + With the wealth of field and homestead, and garden and river and wood; + And I was glad amidst it, and little of evil I knew + As I did in sport and pastime such deeds as a youth might do, + Who deems he shall live for ever. Till at last it befel on a day + That I came across our Frenchman at the edge of the new-mown hay, + A-fishing as he was wont, alone as he always was; + So I helped the dark old man to bring a chub to grass, + And somehow he knew of my birth, and somehow we came to be friends, + Till he got to telling me chapters of the tale that never ends; + The battle of grief and hope with riches and folly and wrong. + He told how the weak conspire, he told of the fear of the strong; + He told of dreams grown deeds, deeds done ere time was ripe, + Of hope that melted in air like the smoke of his evening pipe; + Of the fight long after hope in the teeth of all despair; + Of battle and prison and death, of life stripped naked and bare. + But to me it all seemed happy, for I gilded all with the gold + Of youth that believes not in death, nor knoweth of hope grown cold. + I hearkened and learned, and longed with a longing that had no name, + Till I went my ways to our village and again departure came. + + Wide now the world was grown, and I saw things clear and grim, + That awhile agone smiled on me from the dream-mist doubtful and dim. + I knew that the poor were poor, and had no heart or hope; + And I knew that I was nothing with the least of evils to cope; + So I thought the thoughts of a man, and I fell into bitter mood, + Wherein, except as a picture, there was nought on the earth that was + good; + Till I met the woman I love, and she asked, as folk ask of the wise, + Of the root and meaning of things that she saw in the world of lies. + I told her all I knew, and the tale told lifted the load + That made me less than a man; and she set my feet on the road. + + So we left our pleasure behind to seek for hope and for life, + And to London we came, if perchance there smouldered the embers of + strife + Such as our Frenchman had told of; and I wrote to him to ask + If he would be our master, and set the learners their task. + But “dead” was the word on the letter when it came back to me, + And all that we saw henceforward with our own eyes must we see. + So we looked and wondered and sickened; not for ourselves indeed: + My father by now had died, but he left enough for my need; + And besides, away in our village the joiner’s craft had I learned, + And I worked as other men work, and money and wisdom I earned. + Yet little from day to day in street or workshop I met + To nourish the plant of hope that deep in my heart had been set. + The life of the poor we learned, and to me there was nothing new + In their day of little deeds that ever deathward drew. + But new was the horror of London that went on all the while + That rich men played at their ease for name and fame to beguile + The days of their empty lives, and praised the deeds they did, + As though they had fashioned the earth and found out the sun long hid; + Though some of them busied themselves from hopeless day to day + With the lives of the slaves of the rich and the hell wherein they + lay. + They wrought meseems as those who should make a bargain with hell, + That it grow a little cooler, and thus for ever to dwell. + + So passed the world on its ways, and weary with waiting we were. + Men ate and drank and married; no wild cry smote the air, + No great crowd ran together to greet the day of doom; + And ever more and more seemed the town like a monstrous tomb + To us, the Pilgrims of Hope, until to-night it came, + And Hope on the stones of the street is written in letters of flame. + + This is how it befel: a workmate of mine had heard + Some bitter speech in my mouth, and he took me up at the word, + And said: “Come over to-morrow to our Radical spouting-place; + For there, if we hear nothing new, at least we shall see a new face; + He is one of those Communist chaps, and ’tis like that you two may + agree.” + So we went, and the street was as dull and as common as aught you + could see; + Dull and dirty the room. Just over the chairman’s chair + Was a bust, a Quaker’s face with nose cocked up in the air; + There were common prints on the wall of the heads of the party fray, + And Mazzini dark and lean amidst them gone astray. + Some thirty men we were of the kind that I knew full well, + Listless, rubbed down to the type of our easy-going hell. + My heart sank down as I entered, and wearily there I sat + While the chairman strove to end his maunder of this and of that. + And partly shy he seemed, and partly indeed ashamed + Of the grizzled man beside him as his name to us he named. + He rose, thickset and short, and dressed in shabby blue, + And even as he began it seemed as though I knew + The thing he was going to say, though I never heard it before. + He spoke, were it well, were it ill, as though a message he bore, + A word that he could not refrain from many a million of men. + Nor aught seemed the sordid room and the few that were listening then + Save the hall of the labouring earth and the world which was to be. + Bitter to many the message, but sweet indeed unto me, + Of man without a master, and earth without a strife, + And every soul rejoicing in the sweet and bitter of life: + Of peace and good-will he told, and I knew that in faith he spake, + But his words were my very thoughts, and I saw the battle awake, + And I followed from end to end; and triumph grew in my heart + As he called on each that heard him to arise and play his part + In the tale of the new-told gospel, lest as slaves they should live + and die. + + He ceased, and I thought the hearers would rise up with one cry, + And bid him straight enrol them; but they, they applauded indeed, + For the man was grown full eager, and had made them hearken and heed: + But they sat and made no sign, and two of the glibber kind + Stood up to jeer and to carp his fiery words to blind. + I did not listen to them, but failed not his voice to hear + When he rose to answer the carpers, striving to make more clear + That which was clear already; not overwell, I knew, + He answered the sneers and the silence, so hot and eager he grew; + But my hope full well he answered, and when he called again + On men to band together lest they live and die in vain, + In fear lest he should escape me, I rose ere the meeting was done, + And gave him my name and my faith—and I was the only one. + He smiled as he heard the jeers, and there was a shake of the hand, + He spoke like a friend long known; and lo! I was one of the band. + + And now the streets seem gay and the high stars glittering bright; + And for me, I sing amongst them, for my heart is full and light. + I see the deeds to be done and the day to come on the earth, + And riches vanished away and sorrow turned to mirth; + I see the city squalor and the country stupor gone. + And we a part of it all—we twain no longer alone + In the days to come of the pleasure, in the days that are of the + fight— + I was born once long ago: I am born again to-night. + + + +VI +THE NEW PROLETARIAN + + + HOW near to the goal are we now, and what shall we live to behold? + Will it come a day of surprise to the best of the hopeful and bold? + Shall the sun arise some morning and see men falling to work, + Smiling and loving their lives, not fearing the ill that may lurk + In every house on their road, in the very ground that they tread? + Shall the sun see famine slain, and the fear of children dead? + Shall he look adown on men set free from the burden of care, + And the earth grown like to himself, so comely, clean and fair? + Or else will it linger and loiter, till hope deferred hath spoiled + All bloom of the life of man—yea, the day for which we have toiled? + Till our hearts be turned to stone by the griefs that we have borne, + And our loving kindness seared by love from our anguish torn. + Till our hope grow a wrathful fire, and the light of the second birth + Be a flame to burn up the weeds from the lean impoverished earth. + + What’s this? Meseems it was but a little while ago + When the merest sparkle of hope set all my heart aglow! + The hope of the day was enough; but now ’tis the very day + That wearies my hope with longing. What’s changed or gone away? + Or what is it drags at my heart-strings?—is it aught save the coward’s + fear? + In this little room where I sit is all that I hold most dear— + My love, and the love we have fashioned, my wife and the little lad. + Yet the four walls look upon us with other eyes than they had, + For indeed a thing hath happened. Last week at my craft I worked, + Lest oft in the grey of the morning my heart should tell me I shirked; + But to-day I work for us three, lest he and she and I + In the mud of the street should draggle till we come to the workhouse + or die. + + Not long to tell is the story, for, as I told you before, + A lawyer paid me the money which came from my father’s store. + Well, now the lawyer is dead, and a curious tangle of theft, + It seems, is what he has lived by, and none of my money is left. + So I who have worked for my pleasure now work for utter need: + In “the noble army of labour” I now am a soldier indeed. + + “You are young, you belong to the class that you love,” saith the rich + man’s sneer; + “Work on with your class and be thankful.” All that I hearken to + hear, + Nor heed the laughter much; have patience a little while, + I will tell you what’s in my heart, nor hide a jot by guile. + When I worked pretty much for my pleasure I really worked with a will, + It was well and workmanlike done, and my fellows knew my skill, + And deemed me one of themselves though they called me gentleman Dick, + Since they knew I had some money; but now that to work I must stick, + Or fall into utter ruin, there’s something gone, I find; + The work goes, cleared is the job, but there’s something left behind; + I take up fear with my chisel, fear lies ’twixt me and my plane, + And I wake in the merry morning to a new unwonted pain. + That’s fear: I shall live it down—and many a thing besides + Till I win the poor dulled heart which the workman’s jacket hides. + Were it not for the Hope of Hopes I know my journey’s end, + And would wish I had ne’er been born the weary way to wend. + + Now further, well you may think we have lived no gentleman’s life, + My wife is my servant, and I am the servant of my wife, + And we make no work for each other; but country folk we were, + And she sickened sore for the grass and the breath of the fragrant air + That had made her lovely and strong; and so up here we came + To the northern slopes of the town to live with a country dame, + Who can talk of the field-folks’ ways: not one of the newest the + house, + The woodwork worn to the bone, its panels the land of the mouse, + Its windows rattling and loose, its floors all up and down; + But this at least it was, just a cottage left in the town. + There might you sit in our parlour in the Sunday afternoon + And watch the sun through the vine-leaves and fall to dreaming that + soon + You would see the grey team passing, their fetlocks wet with the + brook, + Or the shining mountainous straw-load: there the summer moon would + look + Through the leaves on the lampless room, wherein we sat we twain, + All London vanished away; and the morn of the summer rain + Would waft us the scent of the hay; or the first faint yellow leaves + Would flutter adown before us and tell of the acres of sheaves. + + All this hath our lawyer eaten, and to-morrow must we go + To a room near my master’s shop, in the purlieus of Soho. + No words of its shabby meanness! But that is our prison-cell + In the jail of weary London. Therein for us must dwell + The hope of the world that shall be, that rose a glimmering spark + As the last thin flame of our pleasure sank quavering in the dark. + + Again the rich man jeereth: “The man is a coward, or worse— + He bewails his feeble pleasure; he quails before the curse + Which many a man endureth with calm and smiling face.” + Nay, the man is a man, by your leave! Or put yourself in his place, + And see if the tale reads better. The haven of rest destroyed, + And nothing left of the life that was once so well enjoyed + But leave to live and labour, and the glimmer of hope deferred. + Now know I the cry of the poor no more as a story heard, + But rather a wordless wail forced forth from the weary heart. + Now, now when hope ariseth I shall surely know my part. + + * * * * * + + THERE’S a little more to tell. When those last words were said, + At least I was yet a-working, and earning daily bread. + But now all that is changed, and meseems adown the stair + That leads to the nethermost pit, man, wife and child must fare. + + When I joined the Communist folk, I did what in me lay + To learn the grounds of their faith. I read day after day + Whatever books I could handle, and heard about and about + What talk was going amongst them; and I burned up doubt after doubt, + Until it befel at last that to others I needs must speak + (Indeed, they pressed me to that while yet I was weaker than weak). + So I began the business, and in street-corners I spake + To knots of men. Indeed, that made my very heart ache, + So hopeless it seemed; for some stood by like men of wood; + And some, though fain to listen, but a few words understood; + And some but hooted and jeered: but whiles across some I came + Who were keen and eager to hear; as in dry flax the flame + So the quick thought flickered amongst them: and that indeed was a + feast. + So about the streets I went, and the work on my hands increased; + And to say the very truth betwixt the smooth and the rough + It was work and hope went with it, and I liked it well enough: + Nor made I any secret of all that I was at + But daily talked in our shop and spoke of this and of that. + + Then vanished my money away, and like a fool I told + Some one or two of the loss. Did that make the master bold? + Before I was one of his lot, and as queer as my head might be + I might do pretty much as I liked. Well now he sent for me + And spoke out in very words my thought of the rich man’s jeer: + “Well, sir, you have got your wish, as far as I can hear, + And are now no thief of labour, but an honest working man: + Now I’ll give you a word of warning: stay in it as long as you can, + This working lot that you like so: you’re pretty well off as you are. + So take another warning: I have thought you went too far, + And now I am quite sure of it; so make an end of your talk + At once and for ever henceforth, or out of my shop you walk; + There are plenty of men to be had who are quite as good as you. + And mind you, anywhere else you’ll scarce get work to do, + Unless you rule your tongue;—good morning; stick to your work.” + + The hot blood rose to my eyes, somewhere a thought did lurk + To finish both him and the job: but I knew now what I was, + And out of the little office in helpless rage did I pass + And went to my work, a _slave_, for the sake of my child and my sweet. + Did men look for the brand on my forehead that eve as I went through + the street? + And what was the end after all? Why, one of my shopmates heard + My next night’s speech in the street, and passed on some bitter word, + And that week came a word with my money: “You needn’t come again.” + And the shame of my four days’ silence had been but grief in vain. + + Well I see the days before me: this time we shall not die + Nor go to the workhouse at once: I shall get work by-and-by, + And shall work in fear at first, and at last forget my fear, + And drudge on from day to day, since it seems that I hold life dear. + ’Tis the lot of many millions! Yet if half of those millions knew + The hope that my heart hath learned, we should find a deed to do, + And who or what should withstand us? And I, e’en I might live + To know the love of my fellows and the gifts that earth can give. + + + +VII +IN PRISON—AND AT HOME + + + THE first of the nights is this, and I cannot go to bed; + I long for the dawning sorely, although when the night shall be dead, + Scarce to me shall the day be alive. Twice twenty-eight nights more, + Twice twenty-eight long days till the evil dream be o’er! + And he, does he count the hours as he lies in his prison-cell? + Does he nurse and cherish his pain? Nay, I know his strong heart + well, + Swift shall his soul fare forth; he is here, and bears me away, + Till hand in hand we depart toward the hope of the earlier day. + Yea, here or there he sees it: in the street, in the cell, he sees + The vision he made me behold mid the stems of the blossoming trees, + When spring lay light on the earth, and first and at last I knew + How sweet was his clinging hand, how fair were the deeds he would do. + + Nay, how wilt thou weep and be soft and cherish a pleasure in pain, + When the days and their task are before thee and awhile thou must work + for twain? + O face, thou shalt lose yet more of thy fairness, be thinner no doubt, + And be waxen white and worn by the day that he cometh out! + Hand, how pale thou shalt be! how changed from the sunburnt hand + That he kissed as it handled the rake in the noon of the summer land! + + Let me think then it is but a trifle: the neighbours have told me so; + “Two months! why that is nothing and the time will speedily go.” + ’Tis nothing—O empty bed, let me work then for his sake! + I will copy out the paper which he thought the News might take, + If my eyes may see the letters; ’tis a picture of our life + And the little deeds of our days ere we thought of prison and strife. + + Yes, neighbour, yes I am early—and I was late last night; + Bedless I wore through the hours and made a shift to write. + It was kind of you to come, nor will it grieve me at all + To tell you why he’s in prison and how the thing did befal; + For I know you are with us at heart, and belike will join us soon. + It was thus: we went to a meeting on Saturday afternoon, + At a new place down in the West, a wretched quarter enough, + Where the rich men’s houses are elbowed by ragged streets and rough, + Which are worse than they seem to be. (Poor thing! you know too well + How pass the days and the nights within that bricken hell!) + There, then, on a bit of waste we stood ’twixt the rich and the poor; + And Jack was the first to speak; that was he that you met at the door + Last week. It was quiet at first; and dull they most of them stood + As though they heeded nothing, nor thought of bad or of good, + Not even that they were poor, and haggard and dirty and dull: + Nay, some were so rich indeed that they with liquor were full, + And dull wrath rose in their souls as the hot words went by their + ears, + For they deemed they were mocked and rated by men that were more than + their peers. + But for some, they seemed to think that a prelude was all this + To the preachment of saving of souls, and hell, and endless bliss; + While some (O the hearts of slaves!) although they might understand, + When they heard their masters and feeders called thieves of wealth and + of land, + Were as angry as though _they_ were cursed. Withal there were some + that heard, + And stood and pondered it all, and garnered a hope and a word. + Ah! heavy my heart was grown as I gazed on the terrible throng. + Lo! these that should have been the glad and the deft and the strong, + How were they dull and abased as the very filth of the road! + And who should waken their souls or clear their hearts of the load? + + The crowd was growing and growing, and therewith the jeering grew; + And now that the time was come for an ugly brawl I knew, + When I saw how midst of the workmen some well-dressed men there came, + Of the scum of the well-to-do, brutes void of pity or shame; + The thief is a saint beside them. These raised a jeering noise, + And our speaker quailed before it, and the hubbub drowned his voice. + Then Richard put him aside and rose at once in his place, + And over the rags and the squalor beamed out his beautiful face, + And his sweet voice rang through the tumult, and I think the crowd + would have hushed + And hearkened his manly words; but a well-dressed reptile pushed + Right into the ring about us and screeched out infamies + That sickened the soul to hearken; till he caught my angry eyes + And my voice that cried out at him, and straight on me he turned, + A foul word smote my heart and his cane on my shoulders burned. + But e’en as a kestrel stoops down Richard leapt from his stool + And drave his strong right hand amidst the mouth of the fool. + Then all was mingled together, and away from him was I torn, + And, hustled hither and thither, on the surging crowd was borne; + But at last I felt my feet, for the crowd began to thin, + And I looked about for Richard that away from thence we might win; + When lo, the police amidst us, and Richard hustled along + Betwixt a pair of blue-coats as the doer of all the wrong! + + Little longer, friend, is the story; I scarce have seen him again; + I could not get him bail despite my trouble and pain; + And this morning he stood in the dock: for all that that might avail, + They might just as well have dragged him at once to the destined jail. + The police had got their man and they meant to keep him there, + And whatever tale was needful they had no trouble to swear. + + Well, the white-haired fool on the bench was busy it seems that day, + And so with the words “Two months,” he swept the case away; + Yet he lectured my man ere he went, but not for the riot indeed + For which he was sent to prison, but for holding a dangerous creed. + “What have you got to do to preach such perilous stuff? + To take some care of yourself should find you work enough. + If you needs must preach or lecture, then hire a chapel or hall; + Though indeed if you take my advice you’ll just preach nothing at all, + But stick to your work: you seem clever; who knows but you might rise, + And become a little builder should you condescend to be wise? + For in spite of your silly sedition, the land that we live in is free, + And opens a pathway to merit for you as well as for me.” + + Ah, friend, am I grown light-headed with the lonely grief of the + night, + That I babble of this babble? Woe’s me, how little and light + Is this beginning of trouble to all that yet shall be borne— + At worst but as the shower that lays but a yard of the corn + Before the hailstorm cometh and flattens the field to the earth. + + O for a word from my love of the hope of the second birth! + Could he clear my vision to see the sword creeping out of the sheath + Inch by inch as we writhe in the toils of our living death! + Could he but strengthen my heart to know that we cannot fail; + For alas, I am lonely here—helpless and feeble and frail; + I am e’en as the poor of the earth, e’en they that are now alive; + And where is their might and their cunning with the mighty of men to + strive? + Though they that come after be strong to win the day and the crown, + Ah, ever must we the deedless to the deedless dark go down, + Still crying, “To-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow yet shall be + The new-born sun’s arising o’er happy earth and sea”— + And we not there to greet it—for to-day and its life we yearn, + And where is the end of toiling and whitherward now shall we turn + But to patience, ever patience, and yet and yet to bear; + And yet, forlorn, unanswered as oft before to hear, + Through the tales of the ancient fathers and the dreams that mock our + wrong, + That cry to the naked heavens, “How long, O Lord! how long?” + + + +VIII +THE HALF OF LIFE GONE + + + THE days have slain the days, and the seasons have gone by + And brought me the summer again; and here on the grass I lie + As erst I lay and was glad ere I meddled with right and with wrong. + Wide lies the mead as of old, and the river is creeping along + By the side of the elm-clad bank that turns its weedy stream, + And grey o’er its hither lip the quivering rushes gleam. + There is work in the mead as of old; they are eager at winning the + hay, + While every sun sets bright and begets a fairer day. + The forks shine white in the sun round the yellow red-wheeled wain, + Where the mountain of hay grows fast; and now from out of the lane + Comes the ox-team drawing another, comes the bailiff and the beer, + And thump, thump, goes the farmer’s nag o’er the narrow bridge of the + weir. + High up and light are the clouds, and though the swallows flit + So high o’er the sunlit earth, they are well a part of it, + And so, though high over them, are the wings of the wandering herne; + In measureless depths above him doth the fair sky quiver and burn; + The dear sun floods the land as the morning falls toward noon, + And a little wind is awake in the best of the latter June. + + They are busy winning the hay, and the life and the picture they make, + If I were as once I was, I should deem it made for my sake; + For here if one need not work is a place for happy rest, + While one’s thought wends over the world, north, south, and east and + west. + There are the men and the maids, and the wives and the gaffers grey + Of the fields I know so well, and but little changed are they + Since I was a lad amongst them; and yet how great is the change! + Strange are they grown unto me; yea, I to myself am strange. + Their talk and their laughter mingling with the music of the meads + Has now no meaning to me to help or to hinder my needs, + So far from them have I drifted. And yet amidst them goes + A part of myself, my boy, and of pleasure and pain he knows, + And deems it something strange when he is other than glad. + Lo now! the woman that stoops and kisses the face of the lad, + And puts a rake in his hand and laughs in his laughing face— + Whose is the voice that laughs in the old familiar place? + Whose should it be but my love’s, if my love were yet on the earth? + Could she refrain from the fields where my joy and her joy had birth, + When I was there and her child, on the grass that knew her feet + Mid the flowers that led her on when the summer eve was sweet? + + No, no, it is she no longer; never again can she come + And behold the hay-wains creeping o’er the meadows of her home; + No more can she kiss her son or put the rake in his hand + That she handled a while agone in the midst of the haymaking band. + Her laughter is gone and her life; there is no such thing on the + earth, + No share for me then in the stir, no share in the hurry and mirth. + + Nay, let me look and believe that all these will vanish away, + At least when the night has fallen, and that she will be there mid the + hay, + Happy and weary with work, waiting and longing for love. + There will she be, as of old, when the great moon hung above, + And lightless and dead was the village, and nought but the weir was + awake; + There will she rise to meet me, and my hands will she hasten to take, + And thence shall we wander away, and over the ancient bridge + By many a rose-hung hedgerow, till we reach the sun-burnt ridge + And the great trench digged by the Romans: there then awhile shall we + stand, + To watch the dawn come creeping o’er the fragrant lovely land, + Till all the world awaketh, and draws us down, we twain, + To the deeds of the field and the fold and the merry summer’s gain. + + Ah thus, only thus shall I see her, in dreams of the day or the night, + When my soul is beguiled of its sorrow to remember past delight. + She is gone. She was and she is not; there is no such thing on the + earth + But e’en as a picture painted; and for me there is void and dearth + That I cannot name or measure. + Yet for me and all these she died, + E’en as she lived for awhile, that the better day might betide. + Therefore I live, and I shall live till the last day’s work shall + fail. + Have patience now but a little and I will tell you the tale + Of how and why she died, and why I am weak and worn, + And have wandered away to the meadows and the place where I was born: + But here and to-day I cannot; for ever my thought will stray + To that hope fulfilled for a little and the bliss of the earlier day. + Of the great world’s hope and anguish to-day I scarce can think: + Like a ghost from the lives of the living and their earthly deeds I + shrink. + I will go adown by the water and over the ancient bridge, + And wend in our footsteps of old till I come to the sun-burnt ridge, + And the great trench digged by the Romans; and thence awhile will I + gaze, + And see three teeming counties stretch out till they fade in the haze; + And in all the dwellings of man that thence mine eyes shall see, + What man as hapless as I am beneath the sun shall be? + + O fool, what words are these? Thou hast a sorrow to nurse, + And thou hast been bold and happy; but these, if they utter a curse, + No sting it has and no meaning—it is empty sound on the air. + Thy life is full of mourning, and theirs so empty and bare + That they have no words of complaining; nor so happy have they been + That they may measure sorrow or tell what grief may mean. + And thou, thou hast deeds to do, and toil to meet thee soon; + Depart and ponder on these through the sun-worn afternoon. + + + +IX +A NEW FRIEND + + + I HAVE promised to tell you the story of how I was left alone + Sick and wounded and sore, and why the woman is gone + That I deemed a part of my life. Tell me when all is told, + If you deem it fit that the earth, that the world of men should hold + My work and my weariness still; yet think of that other life, + The child of me and of her, and the years and the coming strife. + + After I came out of prison our living was hard to earn + By the work of my hands, and of hers; to shifts we had to turn, + Such as the poor know well, and the rich cannot understand, + And just out of the gutter we stood, still loving and hand in hand. + + Do you ask me if still amidst all I held the hunt in view, + And the hope of the morning of life, all the things I should do and + undo? + Be easy, I am not a coward: nay little prudence I learned, + I spoke and I suffered for speaking, and my meat by my manhood was + burned. + When the poor man thinks—and rebels, the whip lies ready anear; + But he who is rebel and rich may live safe for many a year, + While he warms his heart with pictures of all the glory to come. + There’s the storm of the press and the critics maybe, but sweet is his + home, + There is meat in the morn and the even, and rest when the day is done, + All is fair and orderly there as the rising and setting sun— + And I know both the rich and the poor. + Well, I grew bitter they said; + ’Tis not unlike that I did, for bitter indeed was my bread, + And surely the nursling plant shall smack of its nourishing soil. + And here was our life in short, pinching and worry and toil, + One petty fear thrust out by another come in its place, + Each scrap of life but a fear, and the sum of it wretched and base. + E’en so fare millions of men, where men for money are made, + Where the poor are dumb and deedless, where the rich are not afraid. + Ah, am I bitter again? Well, these are our breeding-stock, + The very base of order, and the state’s foundation rock; + Is it so good and so safe that their manhood should be outworn + By the struggle for anxious life, the dull pain dismally borne, + Till all that was man within them is dead and vanished away? + Were it not even better that all these should think on a day + As they look on each other’s sad faces, and see how many they are: + “What are these tales of old time of men who were mighty in war? + They fought for some city’s dominion, for the name of a forest or + field; + They fell that no alien’s token should be blazoned on their shield; + And for this is their valour praised and dear is their renown, + And their names are beloved for ever and they wear the patriot’s + crown; + And shall we then wait in the streets and this heap of misery, + Till their stones rise up to help us or the far heavens set us free? + For we, we shall fight for no name, no blazon on banner or shield; + But that man to man may hearken and the earth her increase yield; + That never again in the world may be sights like we have seen; + That never again in the world may be men like we have been, + That never again like ours may be manhood spoilt and blurred.” + + Yea even so was I bitter, and this was my evilest word: + “Spend and be spent for our hope, and you at least shall be free, + Though you be rugged and coarse, as wasted and worn as you be.” + Well, “bitter” I was, and denounced, and scarcely at last might we + stand + From out of the very gutter, as we wended hand in hand. + I had written before for the papers, but so “bitter” was I grown, + That none of them now would have me that could pay me half-a-crown, + And the worst seemed closing around us; when as it needs must chance, + I spoke at some Radical Club of the Great Revolution in France. + Indeed I said nothing new to those who had learned it all, + And yet as something strange on some of the folk did it fall. + It was late in the terrible war, and France to the end drew nigh, + And some of us stood agape to see how the war would die, + And what would spring from its ashes. So when the talk was o’er + And after the stir and excitement I felt the burden I bore + Heavier yet for it all, there came to speak to me + A serious well-dressed man, a “gentleman,” young I could see; + And we fell to talk together, and he shyly gave me praise, + And asked, though scarcely in words, of my past and my “better days.” + Well, there,—I let it all out, and I flushed as I strode along, + (For we were walking by now) and bitterly spoke of the wrong. + Maybe I taught him something, but ready he was to learn, + And had come to our workmen meetings some knowledge of men to learn. + He kindled afresh at my words, although to try him I spake + More roughly than I was wont; but every word did he take + For what it was really worth, nor even laughter he spared, + As though he would look on life of its rags of habit bared. + + Well, why should I be ashamed that he helped me at my need? + My wife and my child, must I kill them? And the man was a friend + indeed, + And the work that he got me I did (it was writing, you understand) + As well as another might do it. To be short, he joined our band + Before many days were over, and we saw him everywhere + That we workmen met together, though I brought him not to my lair. + Eager he grew for the Cause, and we twain grew friend and friend: + He was dainty of mind and of body; most brave, as he showed in the + end; + Merry despite of his sadness, quick-witted and speedy to see: + Like a perfect knight of old time as the poets would have them to be. + That was the friend that I won by my bitter speech at last. + He loved me; he grieved my soul: now the love and the grief are past; + He is gone with his eager learning, his sadness and his mirth, + His hope and his fond desire. There is no such thing on the earth. + He died not unbefriended—nor unbeloved maybe. + Betwixt my life and his longing there rolls a boundless sea. + And what are those memories now to all that I have to do, + The deeds to be done so many, the days of my life so few? + + + +X +READY TO DEPART + + + I SAID of my friend new-found that at first he saw not my lair; + Yet he and I and my wife were together here and there; + And at last as my work increased and my den to a dwelling grew, + He came there often enough, and yet more together we drew. + Then came a change in the man; for a month he kept away, + Then came again and was with us for a fortnight every day, + But often he sat there silent, which was little his wont with us. + And at first I had no inkling of what constrained him thus; + I might have thought that he faltered, but now and again there came, + When we spoke of the Cause and its doings, a flash of his eager flame, + And he seemed himself for a while; then the brightness would fade + away, + And he gloomed and shrank from my eyes. + Thus passed day after day, + And grieved I grew, and I pondered: till at last one eve we sat + In the fire-lit room together, and talked of this and that, + But chiefly indeed of the war and what would come of it; + For Paris drew near to its fall, and wild hopes ’gan to flit + Amidst us Communist folk; and we talked of what might be done + When the Germans had gone their ways and the two were left alone, + Betrayers and betrayed in war-worn wasted France. + + As I spoke the word “betrayed,” my eyes met his in a glance, + And swiftly he turned away; then back with a steady gaze + He turned on me; and it seemed as when a sword-point plays + Round the sword in a battle’s beginning and the coming on of strife. + For I knew though he looked on me, he saw not me, but my wife: + And he reddened up to the brow, and the tumult of the blood + Nigh blinded my eyes for a while, that I scarce saw bad or good, + Till I knew that he was arisen and had gone without a word. + Then I turned about unto her, and a quivering voice I heard + Like music without a meaning, and twice I heard my name. + “O Richard, Richard!” she said, and her arms about me came, + And her tears and the lips that I loved were on my face once more. + A while I clung to her body, and longing sweet and sore + Beguiled my heart of its sorrow; then we sundered and sore she wept, + While fair pictures of days departed about my sad heart crept, + And mazed I felt and weary. But we sat apart again, + Not speaking, while between us was the sharp and bitter pain + As the sword ’twixt the lovers bewildered in the fruitless marriage + bed. + Yet a while, and we spoke together, and I scarce knew what I said, + But it was not wrath or reproaching, or the chill of love-born hate; + For belike around and about us, we felt the brooding fate. + We were gentle and kind together, and if any had seen us so, + They had said, “These two are one in the face of all trouble and woe.” + But indeed as a wedded couple we shrank from the eyes of men, + As we dwelt together and pondered on the days that come not again. + + Days passed and we dwelt together; nor Arthur came for awhile; + Gravely it was and sadly, and with no greeting smile, + That we twain met at our meetings: but no growth of hate was yet, + Though my heart at first would be sinking as our thoughts and our eyes + they met: + And when he spake amidst us and as one we two agreed, + And I knew of his faith and his wisdom, then sore was my heart indeed. + We shrank from meeting alone: for the words we had to say + Our thoughts would nowise fashion—not yet for many a day. + + Unhappy days of all days! Yet O might they come again! + So sore as my longing returneth to their trouble and sorrow and pain! + + But time passed, and once we were sitting, my wife and I in our room, + And it was in the London twilight and the February gloom, + When there came a knock, and he entered all pale, though bright were + his eyes, + And I knew that something had happened, and my heart to my mouth did + arise. + “It is over,” he said “—and beginning; for Paris has fallen at last, + And who knows what next shall happen after all that has happened and + passed? + There now may we all be wanted.” + I took up the word: “Well then + Let us go, we three together, and there to die like men.” + + “Nay,” he said, “to live and be happy like men.” Then he flushed up + red, + And she no less as she hearkened, as one thought through their bodies + had sped. + Then I reached out my hand unto him, and I kissed her once on the + brow, + But no word craving forgiveness, and no word of pardon e’en now, + Our minds for our mouths might fashion. + In the February gloom + And into the dark we sat planning, and there was I in the room, + And in speech I gave and I took; but yet alone and apart + In the fields where I once was a youngling whiles wandered the + thoughts of my heart, + And whiles in the unseen Paris, and the streets made ready for war. + Night grew and we lit the candles, and we drew together more, + And whiles we differed a little as we settled what to do, + And my soul was cleared of confusion as nigher the deed-time drew. + + Well, I took my child into the country, as we had settled there, + And gave him o’er to be cherished by a kindly woman’s care, + A friend of my mother’s, but younger: and for Arthur, I let him give + His money, as mine was but little, that the boy might flourish and + live, + Lest we three, or I and Arthur, should perish in tumult and war, + And at least the face of his father he should look on never more. + You cry out shame on my honour? But yet remember again + That a man in my boy was growing; must my passing pride and pain + Undo the manhood within him and his days and their doings blight? + So I thrust my pride away, and I did what I deemed was right, + And left him down in our country. + And well may you think indeed + How my sad heart swelled at departing from the peace of river and + mead, + But I held all sternly aback and again to the town did I pass. + And as alone I journeyed, this was ever in my heart: + “They may die; they may live and be happy; but for me I know my part, + In Paris to do my utmost, and there in Paris to die!” + And I said, “The day of the deeds and the day of deliverance is nigh.” + + + +XI +A GLIMPSE OF THE COMING DAY + + + IT was strange indeed, that journey! Never yet had I crossed the sea + Or looked on another people than the folk that had fostered me, + And my heart rose up and fluttered as in the misty night + We came on the fleet of the fishers slow rolling in the light + Of the hidden moon, as the sea dim under the false dawn lay; + And so like shadows of ships through the night they faded away, + And Calais pier was upon us. Dreamlike it was indeed + As we sat in the train together, and toward the end made speed. + But a dull sleep came upon me, and through the sleep a dream + Of the Frenchman who once was my master by the side of the willowy + stream; + And he talked and told me tales of the war unwaged as yet, + And the victory never won, and bade me never forget, + While I walked on, still unhappy, by the home of the dark-striped + perch. + Till at last, with a flash of light and a rattle and side-long lurch, + I woke up dazed and witless, till my sorrow awoke again, + And the grey of the morn was upon us as we sped through the poplar + plain, + By the brimming streams and the houses with their grey roofs warped + and bent, + And the horseless plough in the furrow, and things fair and innocent. + And there sat my wife before me, and she, too, dreamed as she slept; + For the slow tears fell from her eyelids as in her sleep she wept. + But Arthur sat by my side and waked; and flushed was his face, + And his eyes were quick to behold the picture of each fair place + That we flashed by as on we hurried; and I knew that the joy of life + Was strongly stirred within him by the thought of the coming strife. + Then I too thought for a little, It is good in grief’s despite, + It is good to see earth’s pictures, and so live in the day and the + light. + Yea, we deemed that to death we were hastening, and it made our vision + clear, + And we knew the delight of our life-days, and held their sorrow dear. + + But now when we came unto Paris and were out in the sun and the + street, + It was strange to see the faces that our wondering eyes did meet; + Such joy and peace and pleasure! That folk were glad we knew, + But knew not the why and the wherefore; and we who had just come + through + The vanquished land and down-cast, and there at St. Denis e’en now + Had seen the German soldiers, and heard their bugles blow, + And the drum and fife go rattling through the freshness of the morn— + Yet here we beheld all joyous the folk they had made forlorn! + So at last from a grey stone building we saw a great flag fly, + One colour, red and solemn ’gainst the blue of the spring-tide sky, + And we stopped and turned to each other, and as each at each did we + gaze, + The city’s hope enwrapped us with joy and great amaze. + + As folk in a dream we washed and we ate, and in all detail, + Oft told and in many a fashion, did we have all yesterday’s tale: + How while we were threading our tangle of trouble in London there, + And I for my part, let me say it, within but a step of despair, + In Paris the day of days had betid; for the vile dwarf’s stroke, + To madden Paris and crush her, had been struck and the dull sword + broke; + There was now no foe and no fool in the city, and Paris was free; + And e’en as she is this morning, to-morrow all France will be. + We heard, and our hearts were saying, “In a little while all the + earth—” + And that day at last of all days I knew what life was worth; + For I saw what few have beheld, a folk with all hearts gay. + Then at last I knew indeed that our word of the coming day, + That so oft in grief and in sorrow I had preached, and scarcely knew + If it was but despair of the present or the hope of the day that was + due— + I say that I saw it now, real, solid and at hand. + + And strange how my heart went back to our little nook of the land, + And how plain and clear I saw it, as though I longed indeed + To give it a share of the joy and the satisfaction of need + That here in the folk I beheld. For this in our country spring + Did the starlings bechatter the gables, and the thrush in the + thorn-bush sing, + And the green cloud spread o’er the willows, and the little children + rejoice + And shout midst a nameless longing to the morning’s mingled voice; + For this was the promise of spring-tide, and the new leaves longing to + burst, + And the white roads threading the acres, and the sun-warmed meadows + athirst. + Once all was the work of sorrow and the life without reward, + And the toil that fear hath bidden, and the folly of master and lord; + But now are all things changing, and hope without a fear + Shall speed us on through the story of the changes of the year. + Now spring shall pluck the garland that summer weaves for all, + And autumn spread the banquet and winter fill the hall. + O earth, thou kind bestower, thou ancient fruitful place, + How lovely and beloved now gleams thy happy face! + + And O mother, mother, I said, hadst thou known as I lay in thy lap, + And for me thou hopedst and fearedst, on what days my life should hap, + Hadst thou known of the death that I look for, and the deeds wherein I + should deal, + How calm had been thy gladness! How sweet hadst thou smiled on my + weal! + As some woman of old hadst thou wondered, who hath brought forth a god + of the earth, + And in joy that knoweth no speech she dreams of the happy birth. + + Yea, fair were those hours indeed, whatever hereafter might come, + And they swept over all my sorrow, and all thought of my wildered + home. + But not for dreams of rejoicing had we come across the sea: + That day we delivered the letters that our friends had given to me, + And we craved for some work for the cause. And what work was there + indeed, + But to learn the business of battle and the manner of dying at need? + We three could think of none other, and we wrought our best therein; + And both of us made a shift the sergeant’s stripes to win, + For diligent were we indeed: and he, as in all he did, + Showed a cheerful ready talent that nowise might be hid, + And yet hurt the pride of no man that he needs must step before. + But as for my wife, the _brancard_ of the ambulance-women she wore, + And gently and bravely would serve us; and to all as a sister to be— + A sister amidst of the strangers—and, alas! a sister to me. + + + +XII +MEETING THE WAR-MACHINE + + + SO we dwelt in the war-girdled city as a very part of its life. + Looking back at it all from England, I an atom of the strife, + I can see that I might have seen what the end would be from the first, + The hope of man devoured in the day when the Gods are athirst. + But those days we lived, as I tell you, a life that was not our own; + And we saw but the hope of the world, and the seed that the ages had + sown, + Spring up now a fair-blossomed tree from the earth lying over the + dead; + Earth quickened, earth kindled to spring-tide with the blood that her + lovers have shed, + With the happy days cast off for the sake of her happy day, + With the love of women foregone, and the bright youth worn away, + With the gentleness stripped from the lives thrust into the jostle of + war, + With the hope of the hardy heart forever dwindling afar. + + O Earth, Earth, look on thy lovers, who knew all thy gifts and thy + gain, + But cast them aside for thy sake, and caught up barren pain! + Indeed of some art thou mindful, and ne’er shalt forget their tale, + Till shrunk are the floods of thine ocean and thy sun is waxen pale. + But rather I bid thee remember e’en these of the latter days, + Who were fed by no fair promise and made drunken by no praise. + For them no opening heaven reached out the martyr’s crown; + No folk delivered wept them, and no harvest of renown + They reaped with the scythe of battle; nor round their dying bed + Did kindly friendly farewell the dew of blessing shed; + In the sordid streets of the city mid a folk that knew them not, + In the living death of the prison didst thou deal them out their lot, + Yet foundest them deeds to be doing; and no feeble folk were they + To scowl on their own undoing and wail their lives away; + But oft were they blithe and merry and deft from the strife to wring + Some joy that others gained not midst their peaceful wayfaring. + So fared they, giftless ever, and no help of fortune sought. + Their life was thy deliverance, O Earth, and for thee they fought; + Mid the jeers of the happy and deedless, mid failing friends they went + To their foredoomed fruitful ending on the love of thee intent. + + Yea and we were a part of it all, the beginning of the end, + That first fight of the uttermost battle whither all the nations wend; + And yet could I tell you its story, you might think it little and + mean. + For few of you now will be thinking of the day that might have been, + And fewer still meseemeth of the day that yet shall be, + That shall light up that first beginning and its tangled misery. + For indeed a very machine is the war that now men wage; + Nor have we hold of its handle, we gulled of our heritage, + We workmen slaves of machines. Well, it ground us small enough + This machine of the beaten Bourgeois; though oft the work was rough + That it turned out for its money. Like other young soldiers at first + I scarcely knew the wherefore why our side had had the worst; + For man to man and in knots we faced the matter well; + And I thought, well to-morrow or next day a new tale will be to tell. + I was fierce and not afraid; yet O were the wood-sides fair, + And the crofts and the sunny gardens, though death they harboured + there! + And few but fools are fain of leaving the world outright, + And the story over and done, and an end of the life and the light. + No hatred of life, thou knowest, O Earth, mid the bullets I bore, + Though pain and grief oppressed me that I never may suffer more. + But in those days past over did life and death seem one; + Yea the life had we attained to which could never be undone. + + You would have me tell of the fighting? Well, you know it was new to + me, + Yet it soon seemed as if it had been for ever, and ever would be. + The morn when we made that sally, some thought (and yet not I) + That a few days and all would be over: just a few had got to die, + And the rest would be happy thenceforward. But my stubborn country + blood + Was bidding me hold my halloo till we were out of the wood. + And that was the reason perhaps why little disheartened I was, + As we stood all huddled together that night in a helpless mass, + As beaten men are wont: and I knew enough of war + To know midst its unskilled labour what slips full often are. + + There was Arthur unhurt beside me, and my wife come back again, + And surely that eve between us there was love though no lack of pain + As we talked all the matter over, and our hearts spake more than our + lips; + And we said, “We shall learn, we shall learn—yea, e’en from disasters + and slips.” + + Well, many a thing we learned, but we learned not how to prevail + O’er the brutal war-machine, the ruthless grinder of bale; + By the bourgeois world it was made, for the bourgeois world; and we, + We were e’en as the village weaver ’gainst the power-loom, maybe. + It drew on nearer and nearer, and we ’gan to look to the end— + We three, at least—and our lives began with death to blend; + Though we were long a-dying—though I dwell on yet as a ghost + In the land where we once were happy, to look on the loved and the + lost. + + + +XIII +THE STORY’S ENDING + + + HOW can I tell you the story of the Hope and its defence? + We wrought in a narrow circle; it was hither and thither and thence; + To the walls, and back for a little; to the fort and there to abide, + Grey-beards and boys and women; they lived there—and they died; + Nor counted much in the story. I have heard it told since then, + And mere lies our deeds have turned to in the mouths of happy men, + And e’en those will be soon forgotten as the world wends on its way, + Too busy for truth or kindness. Yet my soul is seeing the day + When those who are now but children the new generation shall be, + And e’en in our land of commerce and the workshop over the sea, + Amid them shall spring up the story; yea the very breath of the air + To the yearning hearts of the workers true tale of it all shall bear. + Year after year shall men meet with the red flag over head, + And shall call on the help of the vanquished and the kindness of the + dead. + And time that weareth most things, and the years that overgrow + The tale of the fools triumphant, yet clearer and clearer shall show + The deeds of the helpers of menfolk to every age and clime, + The deeds of the cursed and the conquered that were wise before their + time. + + Of these were my wife and my friend; there they ended their wayfaring + Like the generations before them thick thronging as leaves of the + spring, + Fast falling as leaves of the autumn as the ancient singer hath said, + And each one with a love and a story. Ah the grief of the early dead! + “What is all this talk?” you are saying; “why all this long delay?” + Yes, indeed, it is hard in the telling. Of things too grievous to say + I would be, but cannot be, silent. Well, I hurry on to the end— + For it drew to the latter ending of the hope that we helped to defend. + The forts were gone and the foemen drew near to the thin-manned wall, + And it wanted not many hours to the last hour and the fall, + And we lived amid the bullets and seldom went away + To what as yet were the streets by night-tide or by day. + We three, we fought together, and I did the best I could, + Too busy to think of the ending; but Arthur was better than good; + Resourceful, keen and eager, from post to post he ran, + To thrust out aught that was moving and bring up the uttermost man, + He was gone on some such errand, and was absent a little space, + When I turned about for a moment and saw my wife’s fair face, + And her foot set firm on the rampart, as she hastened here and there, + To some of our wounded comrades such help as she could to bear. + Then straight she looked upon me with such lovely, friendly eyes + Of the days gone by and remembered, that up from my heart ’gan rise + The choking sobbing passion; but I kept it aback, and smiled, + And waved my hand aloft—But therewith her face turned wild + In a moment of time, and she stared along the length of the wall, + And I saw a man who was running and crouching, stagger and fall, + And knew it for Arthur at once; but voiceless toward him she ran, + I with her, crying aloud. But or ever we reached the man, + Lo! a roar and a crash around us and my sick brain whirling around, + And a white light turning to black, and no sky and no air and no + ground, + And then what I needs must tell of as a great blank; but indeed + No words to tell of its horror hath language for my need: + As a map is to a picture, so is all that my words can say. + + But when I came to myself, in a friend’s house sick I lay + Amid strange blended noises, and my own mind wandering there; + Delirium in me indeed and around me everywhere. + That passed, and all things grew calmer, I with them: all the stress + That the last three months had been on me now sank to helplessness. + I bettered, and then they told me the tale of what had betid; + And first, that under the name of a friend of theirs I was hid, + Who was slain by mere misadventure, and was English as was I, + And no rebel, and had due papers wherewith I might well slip by + When I was somewhat better. Then I knew, though they had not told, + How all was fallen together, and my heart grew sick and cold. + And yet indeed thenceforward I strove my life to live, + That e’en as I was and so hapless I yet might live to strive. + It was but few words they told me of that murder great and grim, + And how with the blood of the guiltless the city’s streets did swim, + And of other horrors they told not, except in a word or two, + When they told of their scheme to save me from the hands of the + villainous crew, + Whereby I guessed what was happening in the main without detail. + And so at last it came to their telling the other tale + Of my wife and my friend; though that also methought I knew too well. + Well, they said that I had been wounded by the fragment of a shell, + Another of which had slain her outright, as forth she ran + Toward Arthur struck by a bullet. She never touched the man + Alive and she also alive; but thereafter as they lay + Both dead on one litter together, then folk who knew not us, + But were moved by seeing the twain so fair and so piteous, + Took them for husband and wife who were fated there to die, + Or, it may be lover and lover indeed—but what know I? + + Well, you know that I ’scaped from Paris, and crossed the narrow sea, + And made my way to the country where we twain were wont to be, + And that is the last and the latest of the tale I have to tell. + I came not here to be bidding my happiness farewell, + And to nurse my grief and to win me the gain of a wounded life, + That because of the bygone sorrow may hide away from the strife. + I came to look to my son, and myself to get stout and strong, + That two men there might be hereafter to battle against the wrong; + And I cling to the love of the past and the love of the day to be, + And the present, it is but the building of the man to be strong in me. + + + + +CHANTS FOR SOCIALISTS + + +THE DAY IS COMING + + + COME hither, lads, and hearken, for a tale there is to tell, + Of the wonderful days a-coming, when all shall be better than well. + + And the tale shall be told of a country, a land in the midst of the + sea, + And folk shall call it England in the days that are going to be. + + There more than one in a thousand in the days that are yet to come + Shall have some hope of the morrow, some joy of the ancient home. + + For then—laugh not, but listen to this strange tale of mine— + All folk that are in England shall be better lodged than swine. + + Then a man shall work and bethink him, and rejoice in the deeds of his + hand, + Nor yet come home in the even too faint and weary to stand. + + Men in that time a-coming shall work and have no fear + For to-morrow’s lack of earning and the hunger-wolf anear. + + I tell you this for a wonder, that no man then shall be glad + Of his fellow’s fall and mishap to snatch at the work he had. + + For that which the worker winneth shall then be his indeed, + Nor shall half be reaped for nothing by him that sowed no seed. + + O strange new wonderful justice! But for whom shall we gather the + gain? + For ourselves and for each of our fellows, and no hand shall labour in + vain. + + Then all Mine and all Thine shall be Ours, and no more shall any man + crave + For riches that serve for nothing but to fetter a friend for a slave. + + And what wealth then shall be left us when none shall gather gold + To buy his friend in the market, and pinch and pine the sold? + + Nay, what save the lovely city, and the little house on the hill, + And the wastes and the woodland beauty, and the happy fields we till; + + And the homes of ancient stories, the tombs of the mighty dead; + And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet’s teeming head; + + And the painter’s hand of wonder; and the marvellous fiddle-bow, + And the banded choirs of music: all those that do and know. + + For all these shall be ours and all men’s, nor shall any lack a share + Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows + fair. + + * * * * * + + Ah! such are the days that shall be! But what are the deeds of + to-day, + In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away? + + Why, then, and for what are we waiting? There are three words to + speak: + WE WILL IT, and what is the foeman but the dream-strong wakened and + weak? + + O why and for what are we waiting? While our brothers droop and die, + And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by. + + How long shall they reproach us where crowd on crowd they dwell, + Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold-crushed hungry hell? + + Through squalid life they laboured, in sordid grief they died, + Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England’s pride. + + They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the + curse; + But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse? + + It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door + For the rich man’s hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the + poor. + + Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their unlearned + discontent, + We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent. + + * * * * * + + Come, then, since all things call us, the living and the dead, + And o’er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed. + + Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest, + For the CAUSE alone is worthy till the good days bring the best. + + Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail, + Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail. + + Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know: + That the Dawn and the Day is coming, and forth the Banners go. + + + +THE VOICE OF TOIL + + + I HEARD men saying, Leave hope and praying, + All days shall be as all have been; + To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow, + The never-ending toil between. + + When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger, + In hope we strove, and our hands were strong; + Then great men led us, with words they fed us, + And bade us right the earthly wrong. + + Go read in story their deeds and glory, + Their names amidst the nameless dead; + Turn then from lying to us slow-dying + In that good world to which they led; + + Where fast and faster our iron master, + The thing we made, for ever drives, + Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure + For other hopes and other lives. + + Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel, + Forgetting that the world is fair; + Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul perish; + Where our mirth is crime, our love a snare. + + Who now shall lead us, what god shall heed us + As we lie in the hell our hands have won? + For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers, + The great are fallen, the wise men gone. + + * * * * * + + I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying, + The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep; + Are we not stronger than the rich and the wronger, + When day breaks over dreams and sleep? + + Come, shoulder to shoulder ere the world grows older! + Help lies in nought but thee and me; + Hope is before us, the long years that bore us + Bore leaders more than men may be. + + Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry, + And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth, + While we the living our lives are giving + To bring the bright new world to birth. + + Come, shoulder to shoulder ere earth grows older + The Cause spreads over land and sea; + Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh + And joy at last for thee and me. + + + +NO MASTER + + + SAITH man to man, We’ve heard and known + That we no master need + To live upon this earth, our own, + In fair and manly deed. + The grief of slaves long passed away + For us hath forged the chain, + Till now each worker’s patient day + Builds up the House of Pain. + + And we, shall we too, crouch and quail, + Ashamed, afraid of strife, + And lest our lives untimely fail + Embrace the Death in Life? + Nay, cry aloud, and have no fear, + We few against the world; + Awake, arise! the hope we bear + Against the curse is hurled. + + It grows and grows—are we the same, + The feeble band, the few? + Or what are these with eyes aflame, + And hands to deal and do? + This is the host that bears the word, + NO MASTER HIGH OR LOW— + A lightning flame, a shearing sword, + A storm to overthrow. + + + +ALL FOR THE CAUSE + + + HEAR a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, + When the Cause shall call upon us, some to live, and some to die! + + He that dies shall not die lonely, many an one hath gone before; + He that lives shall bear no burden heavier than the life they bore. + + Nothing ancient is their story, e’en but yesterday they bled, + Youngest they of earth’s beloved, last of all the valiant dead. + + E’en the tidings we are telling was the tale they had to tell, + E’en the hope that our hearts cherish, was the hope for which they + fell. + + In the grave where tyrants thrust them, lies their labour and their + pain, + But undying from their sorrow springeth up the hope again. + + Mourn not therefore, nor lament it, that the world outlives their + life; + Voice and vision yet they give us, making strong our hands for strife. + + Some had name, and fame, and honour, learn’d they were, and wise and + strong; + Some were nameless, poor, unlettered, weak in all but grief and wrong. + + Named and nameless all live in us; one and all they lead us yet + Every pain to count for nothing, every sorrow to forget. + + Hearken how they cry, “O happy, happy ye that ye were born + In the sad slow night’s departing, in the rising of the morn. + + “Fair the crown the Cause hath for you, well to die or well to live + Through the battle, through the tangle, peace to gain or peace to + give.” + + Ah, it may be! Oft meseemeth, in the days that yet shall be, + When no slave of gold abideth ’twixt the breadth of sea to sea, + + Oft, when men and maids are merry, ere the sunlight leaves the earth, + And they bless the day beloved, all too short for all their mirth, + + Some shall pause awhile and ponder on the bitter days of old, + Ere the toil of strife and battle overthrew the curse of gold; + + Then ’twixt lips of loved and lover solemn thoughts of us shall rise; + We who once were fools and dreamers, then shall be the brave and wise. + + There amidst the world new-builded shall our earthly deeds abide, + Though our names be all forgotten, and the tale of how we died. + + Life or death then, who shall heed it, what we gain or what we lose? + Fair flies life amid the struggle, and the Cause for each shall + choose. + + Hear a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, + When the Cause shall call upon us, some to live, and some to die! + + + +THE MARCH OF THE WORKERS + + + WHAT is this, the sound and rumour? What is this that all men hear, + Like the wind in hollow valleys when the storm is drawing near, + Like the rolling on of ocean in the eventide of fear? + ’Tis the people marching on. + + Whither go they, and whence come they? What are these of whom ye + tell? + In what country are they dwelling ’twixt the gates of heaven and hell? + Are they mine or thine for money? Will they serve a master well? + Still the rumour’s marching on. + + Hark the rolling of the thunder! + Lo the sun! and lo thereunder + Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder, + And the host comes marching on. + + Forth they come from grief and torment; on they wend toward health and + mirth, + All the wide world is their dwelling, every corner of the earth. + Buy them, sell them for thy service! Try the bargain what ’tis worth, + For the days are marching on. + + These are they who build thy houses, weave thy raiment, win thy wheat, + Smooth the rugged, fill the barren, turn the bitter into sweet, + All for thee this day—and ever. What reward for them is meet + Till the host comes marching on? + + Hark the rolling of the thunder! + Lo the sun! and lo thereunder + Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder, + And the host comes marching on. + + Many a hundred years passed over have they laboured deaf and blind; + Never tidings reached their sorrow, never hope their toil might find. + Now at last they’ve heard and hear it, and the cry comes down the + wind, + And their feet are marching on. + + O ye rich men hear and tremble! for with words the sound is rife: + “Once for you and death we laboured; changed henceforward is the + strife. + We are men, and we shall battle for the world of men and life; + And our host is marching on.” + + Hark the rolling of the thunder! + Lo the sun! and lo thereunder + Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder, + And the host comes marching on. + + “Is it war, then? Will ye perish as the dry wood in the fire? + Is it peace? Then be ye of us, let your hope be our desire. + Come and live! for life awaketh, and the world shall never tire; + And hope is marching on. + + “On we march then, we the workers, and the rumour that ye hear + Is the blended sound of battle and deliv’rance drawing near; + For the hope of every creature is the banner that we bear, + And the world is marching on.” + + Hark the rolling of the thunder! + Lo the sun! and lo thereunder + Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder, + And the host comes marching on. + + + +DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN + + + COME, comrades, come, your glasses clink; + Up with your hands a health to drink, + The health of all that workers be, + In every land, on every sea. + And he that will this health deny, + Down among the dead men, down among the dead men, + Down, down, down, down, + Down among the dead men let him lie! + + Well done! now drink another toast, + And pledge the gath’ring of the host, + The people armed in brain and hand, + To claim their rights in every land. + And he that will, etc. + + There’s liquor left; come, let’s be kind, + And drink the rich a better mind, + That when we knock upon the door, + They may be off and say no more. + And he that will, etc. + + Now, comrades, let the glass blush red, + Drink we the unforgotten dead + That did their deeds and went away, + Before the bright sun brought the day. + And he that will, etc. + + The Day? Ah, friends, late grows the night; + Drink to the glimmering spark of light, + The herald of the joy to be, + The battle-torch of thee and me! + And he that will, etc. + + Take yet another cup in hand + And drink in hope our little band; + Drink strife in hope while lasteth breath, + And brotherhood in life and death; + And he that will this health deny, + Down among the dead men, down among the dead men, + Down, down, down, down, + Down among the dead men let him lie! + + + +A DEATH SONG + + + WHAT cometh here from west to east awending? + And who are these, the marchers stern and slow? + We bear the message that the rich are sending + Aback to those who bade them wake and know. + _Not one_, _not one_, _nor thousands must they slay_, + _But one and all if they would dusk the day_. + + We asked them for a life of toilsome earning, + They bade us bide their leisure for our bread; + We craved to speak to tell our woeful learning: + We come back speechless, bearing back our dead. + _Not one_, _not one_, _nor thousands must they slay_, + _But one and all if they would dusk the day_. + + They will not learn; they have no ears to hearken. + They turn their faces from the eyes of fate; + Their gay-lit halls shut out the skies that darken. + But, lo! this dead man knocking at the gate. + _Not one_, _not one_, _nor thousands must they slay_, + _But one and all if they would dusk the day_. + + Here lies the sign that we shall break our prison; + Amidst the storm he won a prisoner’s rest; + But in the cloudy dawn the sun arisen + Brings us our day of work to win the best. + _Not one_, _not one_, _nor thousands must they slay_, + _But one and all if they would dusk the day_. + + + +MAY DAY [1892] + + + THE WORKERS. + + O EARTH, once again cometh Spring to deliver + Thy winter-worn heart, O thou friend of the Sun; + Fair blossom the meadows from river to river + And the birds sing their triumph o’er winter undone. + + O Earth, how a-toiling thou singest thy labour + And upholdest the flower-crowned cup of thy bliss, + As when in the feast-tide drinks neighbour to neighbour + And all words are gleeful, and nought is amiss. + + But we, we, O Mother, through long generations, + We have toiled and been fruitful, but never with thee + Might we raise up our bowed heads and cry to the nations + To look on our beauty, and hearken our glee. + + Unlovely of aspect, heart-sick and a-weary + On the season’s fair pageant all dim-eyed we gaze; + Of thy fairness we fashion a prison-house dreary + And in sorrow wear over each day of our days. + + THE EARTH. + + O children! O toilers, what foemen beleaguer + The House I have built you, the Home I have won? + Full great are my gifts, and my hands are all eager + To fill every heart with the deeds I have done. + + THE WORKERS. + + The foemen are born of thy body, O Mother, + In our shape are they shapen, their voice is the same; + And the thought of their hearts is as ours and no other; + It is they of our own house that bring us to shame. + + THE EARTH. + + Are ye few? Are they many? What words have ye spoken + To bid your own brethren remember the Earth? + What deeds have ye done that the bonds should be broken, + And men dwell together in good-will and mirth? + + THE WORKERS. + + They are few, we are many: and yet, O our Mother, + Many years were we wordless and nought was our deed, + But now the word flitteth from brother to brother: + We have furrowed the acres and scattered the seed. + + THE EARTH. + + Win on then unyielding, through fair and foul weather, + And pass not a day that your deed shall avail. + And in hope every spring-tide come gather together + That unto the Earth ye may tell all your tale. + + Then this shall I promise, that I am abiding + The day of your triumph, the ending of gloom, + And no wealth that ye will then my hand shall be hiding + And the tears of the spring into roses shall bloom. + + + +MAY DAY, 1894 + + + CLAD is the year in all her best, + The land is sweet and sheen; + Now Spring with Summer at her breast, + Goes down the meadows green. + + Here are we met to welcome in + The young abounding year, + To praise what she would have us win + Ere winter draweth near. + + For surely all is not in vain, + This gallant show she brings; + But seal of hope and sign of gain, + Beareth this Spring of springs. + + No longer now the seasons wear + Dull, without any tale + Of how the chain the toilers bear + Is growing thin and frail. + + But hope of plenty and goodwill + Flies forth from land to land, + Nor any now the voice can still + That crieth on the hand. + + A little while shall Spring come back + And find the Ancient Home + Yet marred by foolish waste and lack, + And most enthralled by some. + + A little while, and then at last + Shall the greetings of the year + Be blent with wonder of the past + And all the griefs that were. + + A little while, and they that meet + The living year to praise, + Shall be to them as music sweet + That grief of bye-gone days. + + So be we merry to our best, + Now the land is sweet and sheen, + And Spring with Summer at her breast + Goes down the meadows green. + + * * * * * + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN + BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. LTD. + EDINBURGH AND LONDON + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PILGRIMS OF HOPE AND CHANTS FOR +SOCIALISTS*** + + +******* This file should be named 3262-0.txt or 3262-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/2/6/3262 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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