XXIII.

"My father Time is weak and grey
"With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
"Fumbling with his palsied hands:

XXIV.

"He has had child after child,
"And the dust of death is piled
"Over every one but me-
"Misery, oh, Misery!"

XXV.

Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses' feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud and Anarchy.

XXVI.

When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale:

XXVII.

Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky,

XXVIII.

It grew-a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper's scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.

XXIX.

On its helm, seen far away,

A planet, like the Morning's, lay;
And those plumes its light rained thro'
Like a shower of crimson dew.

XXX.

With step as soft as wind it past
O'er the heads of men-so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked, and all was empty air.

XXXI.

As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,
As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.

XXXII.

And the prostrate multitude
Looked-and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien :

XXXIII.

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust, the murderers thronged behind.

XXXIV.

A rushing light of clouds and splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt-and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose

XXXV.

As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother's throe

XXXVI.

Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood,-

As if her heart had cried aloud:

XXXVII.

"Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another;

XXXVIII.

"Rise like Lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number,

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you-
Ye are many-they are few.

XXXIX.

"What is Freedom ?-ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well-
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.

XL.

""Tis to work and have such pay

As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell

For the tyrants' use to dwell

XLI.

"So that ye for them are made

Loom, and plough, and sword, and space,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.

XLII.

""Tis to see your children weak With their mothers pine and peak, When the winter winds are bleak,

They are dying whilst I speak.

XLIII.

""Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye;

XLIV.

""Tis to let the Ghost of Gold

Take from Toil a thousandfold
More than e'er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.

XLV.

"Paper coin-that forgery
Of the title deeds, which ye
Hold to something of the worth

Of the inheritance of Earth,

XLVI.

""Tis to be a slave in soul

And to hold no strong controul

Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.

XLVII.

"And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew
Ride over your wives and you—
Blood is on the grass like dew.

XLVIII.

"Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange

Blood for blood-and wrong for wrong-
Do not thus when ye are strong.

XLIX.

"Birds find rest, in narrow nest

When weary of their wingèd quest;

Beasts find fare, in woody lair

When storm and snow are in the air.

LIV.

"For the labourer thou art bread,

And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come

To a neat and happy home.

LV.

"Thou art clothes, and fire, and food

For the trampled multitude

No in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be

As in England now we see.

LVI.

"To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.

LVII.

"Thou art Justice-ne'er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England-thou
Shield'st alike the high and low.

LVIII.

"Thou art Wisdom-Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.

LIX.

"Thou art Peace-never by thee Would blood and treasure wasted be As tyrants wasted them, when all Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul

LX.

"What if English toil and blood Was poured forth, even as a flood? It availed, Oh, Liberty!

To dim, but not extinguish thee.

LXI.

"Thou art Love-the rich have kist

Thy feet, and like him following Christ Give their substance to the free

And thro' the rough world follow thee