LITMIR.BIZ

      I live in music, in poetry, and in the life reflective.

      I seek intellectual boldness in man, I worship mental swiftness in women.

      I have no love for lawyers, priests, schoolmasters, or any dogmatic men.

      I am with poor against rich, labour against employer, women against men; I fight beside all strikers, mutineers, and rebels.

      I welcome foes; I desire criticism.

      I loathe prejudice, either social or national; I repudiate all claims.

      I demand freedom of action and leisure for reflection.

      Facing Death, I would say: 'I have tasted all, tried all, dared all, suffered all, and I repent nothing.'

      Crowns are ashake,

      The princes and the Kings are bending low,

      And, round the world,

      Before the blast of Freedom, thrones are hurled:

      The People are awake!

      Over the Ark of Tyranny

      The red flag flaunts abroad for all to see!

      Whilst to the roll of drums

      Swelling triumphantly, the glad cry comes:

      The People shall be free!

      In dungeons, men, long-bound for freedom's sake,

      Forgotten of God, deep-frozen by despair,

      Hear with surprise that clangorous fanfare:

      The People are awake!

      Our fathers heard the call,

      When Liberty from her bonds like the angry sea,

      Pouring mightily forth, slew tyranny,

      And singing the Marseillaise, bade crowns to fall,

      That all men should be free!

      Men shall be slaves no more!

      From sea to sea

      That Word of hope unspeakable succour brings;

      The day dawneth when there are no more Kings:

      And the People, the People shall be free!

      There aint no God!

      Coz if there were —

      My boy what's under foreign sod

      Would be alive, and here:

      Instead of which young William Porter

      What never listed when he orter —

      Has his farm;

      And braunges yonder safe away from harm.

      Poor lad! – he went —

      I can't forgit that night —

      While Porter laughed him outer sight;

      Now – he is spent:

      Porter's all right.

      What does he care?

      He's thinking of another farm,

      Instead of laying in some ditch

      He's rich!

      And folk'll gallop at his nod.

      I say it!

      Dost hear me … Thou?

      There aint no God!

      Safe-guarded dwellers in your sea-girt eyrie

      How fares the fight?

      Terror has crept beneath your ocean wall,

      Horror is over-reaching, to appal;

      Your sons are menaced by a furnace fiery:

      What of the night?

      A hundred years have passed at ease

      Since last you fought on bended knees;

      And joints, unused, grow stiff and old,

      And hearts unroused are faint and cold;

      Whilst they who own but wealth, their creed,

      Stand helpless in the hour of need.

      Oh peace-bound nation!

      Lapped in rich sloth; untroubled generation!

      Know you that races change?

      Some dwindle slowly downward in decay,

      Unconscious, till the dawning of the day:

      At touch of fire we learn how they are faring;

      Thrice welcome is the test to nations daring;

      To some – how strange!

      Our ancient enemy – now brother —

      From one Napoleon to another

      Has seen his country ebb and flow

      And now he holds the sternest foe,

      Learning the lesson of strenuous fight

      To brace defensive armour tight:

      But what of you – old Islanders

      So roughly woke?

      Has gilded sloth 'mid dreamless calm

      Stifled your soul, close wrapped from harm,

      In Neptune's cloak?

      Or is it but an idle dress,

      Thrown off at breath of fearful stress?

      Or has it slowly strangled that old oak?

      None may foretell;

      But this we know:

      As fire testeth iron through and through,

      So shall it be with you!

      Not yet have you passed furnace-wise,

      But soon, with newly opened eyes,

      Upon your knees,

      You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease.

      Poets and prophets darkly sang;

      Unheeded then the tocsin rang;

      But now the sky is grey and dim,

      Your enemy is stern and grim,

      Your leaders slow;

      And, though you realise it not …

      You may lie low:

      For, though to fight one son is bold,

      Another hides, amassing gold;

      The strain falls not in equal measure:

      Whilst some lie cold —

      Others distil their blood for treasure,

      And that – Old England – if unchecked,

      Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked.

      You battle not to vanquish a great nation,

      Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas,

      Nor for the Empire of a world at ease,

      Nor fame's fair scroll:

      For your salvation,

      You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul.

      And if you fail —

      Your epitaph: 'too late' —

      The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate:

      Your glorious history of no avail;

      Whilst

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