Chapter 5

Once on thy lips the golden-honeyed bees Settling made sweet the heart that was not strong, And sky and earth and sea burst into song: {87b} Once on thine eyes the light of agonies Flashed through the soul and robbed the days of ease. {87c} But tunes turn stale when love turns babe, and long The exiled gentlemen grow fat with wrong. And peasants, workmen, beggars, what are these? {87d} O you who sang the Italian smoke above,-- Mud-lark of Freedom, pipe of that vile band Whose envy slays the tyrant, not the love Of these poor souls none have the keeping of-- It is your hand--it is your pandar hand Smites the bruised mouth of pilloried Ireland!

TO AN UNIONIST.

"If you only knew How gladly I've given it All these years-- The light of mine eyes, The heat of my lips, Mine agonies, My yearning tears, My blood that drips, My brain that sears: If you only knew How gladly I've given it All these years-- My hope and my youth, My manhood, my Art, My passion, my truth, My mind and my heart:

"O my brother, you would not say, What have you to do with me? You would not, would not turn away Doubtingly and bitterly.

"If you only knew How little I cared for These other things-- The delicate speech, The high demand Of each from each, The imaginings Of Love's Holy Land: If you only knew How little I cared for These other things-- The wide clear view Over peoples and times, The search in the new Entrancing climes, Science's wings And Art's sweet chimes:

"O my brother, if you only knew What to me in these things is understood, As it seems to me it would seem to you, What was good for the Cause was surely good:

"O my brother, you would not say: What have you to do with me? You would not, would not turn away Doubtingly and bitterly:

"But you would take my hand with your hand, O my brother, if you only knew; You would smile at me, you would understand, You would call me brother as I call you!"

TO MY FRIEND SYDNEY JEPHCOTT, WITH A COPY OF MY "POETICAL WORKS."

"Take with all my heart, friend, this, The labour of my past, Though the heart here hidden is And the soul's eternities Hold the present fast.

"Take it, still, with soul and heart, Pledge of that dear day When the shadows stir and start, By the bright Sun burst apart-- _Young Australia_!"

TO E. L. ZOX. {89} (_Melbourne_.)

We thank you for a noble work well done. There is a kindness--('tis the truer one; The better part the simpler heart doth know), The care to give the day a brighter sun

To these, the nameless crowd that drags on slow The common toil, the common weary woe The world cares nought for. But _your_ work secures Thro' union strength and self-respect that grow.

There is a courage that unflawed endures The sneer, the slander of earth's epicures. And here are grateful women's hearts to show This kindness and this courage, both are yours!

"FATHER ABE." (_Song of the American Sons of Labour_.)

THE SONG.

"O we knew so well, dear Father, When we answered to your call, And the Southern Moloch stricken Shook and tottered to his fall--

"O we knew so well you loved us, And our hearts beat back to yours With the rapturous adoration That through all the years endures!

"Mothers, sisters bade us hasten Sweethearts, wives with babe at breast; For the Union, faith and freedom, For our hero of the West!

"And we wrung forth victory blood-stained From the desperate hands of Crime, And our Cause blazed out Man's beacon Through the endless future time!

"And forgiven, forever we bade it Cease, that envy, hatred, strife, As he willed, our murdered Father That had sealed his love with life!

"O dear Father, was it thus, then? Did we this but in a dream? Is it real, hideous present? Does our suffering only seem?

"Bend and listen, look and tell us! Are these joyless toilers We? Slaves more wretched, patient, piteous Than the slaves we fought to free!

"Are these weak, worn girls and women Those whose mothers yet can tell How they kissed and clasped men god-like With fierce faces fronting hell?

"Bend and listen, look and tell us! Is this silent waste, possessed By bloat thieves and their task-masters, Thy free, thy fair, thy fearless West?

"Are these Eastern mobs of wage-slaves, Are these cringing debauchees, Sons of those who slung their rifles-- Shook the old Flag to the breeze?"

THE ANSWER.

"Men and boys, O fathers, brothers, Burst these fetters round you bound! Women, sisters, wives and mothers, Lift your faces from the ground!

"O Democracy, O People, East and West and North and South, Rise together, one for ever, Strike this Crime upon the mouth!

"Bid them not, the men who loved you, Those who fought for you and died, Scorn you that you broke a small Crime, Left a great Crime pass in pride!

"England, France, the played-out countries, Let them reek there in their stew, Let their past rot out their present, But the Future is with you!

"O America, O first-born Of the age that yet shall be Where all men shall be as one man, Noble, faithful, fearless, free!--

"O America, O paramour Of the foul slave-owner Pelf, You who saved from slavery others, Now from slavery save yourself!

"Save yourself, though, anguish-shaken, You cry out and bow your head, Crying 'Why am I forsaken?' Crying 'It is finished!'

"Save yourself, no God will save you; Not one angel can He give! They and He are dead and vanished, And 'tis you, 'tis you must live!

"Risen again, fire-tried, victorious, From the grave of Crime down-hurled, Peerless, pure, serene and glorious, Wield the sceptre of the world!"

A FOOL. (_Brisbane_).

He asked me of my friend--"_a clever man_; _Such various talent_, _business_, _journalism_; _A pen that might some day have sent out_ '_leaders_' _From our greatest newspapers_."--"Yes, all this, All this," I said.--"_And yet he will not rise_? _He'll stay a_ "_comp._," _a printer all his life_?"-- I said: "Just that, a workman all his life." But, as my questioner was a business man, One of the sons of Capital, a sage Whose practicality saw I can suppose Quite to his nose-tip even his finger-ends, I vouchsafed explanation. "This young man My friend, was born and bred a workman. All His heart and soul (And men have hearts and souls Other than those the doctor proses of, The parson prates of, and both make their trade) Were centred in his comradeship and love. His friends, his 'chums', were workmen, and the girl He wooed, and made a happy wife and mother, Had heart and soul like him in whence she sprung. Observe now! When he came to think and read, He saw (it seemed to him he saw) in what Capitalists, Employers, men like you, Think and call 'justice' in your inter-dealings, Some slight mistakes (I fancy _he'd_ say 'wrongs') Whereby his order suffered. So he wonders: '_Cannot we change this_?' And he tries and tries, Knowing his fellows and adapting all His effort in the channels that they know. You understand? He's 'only an Unionist!' Now for the second point. This man believes That these mistakes--these wrongs (we'll pass the word) Spring from a certain thing called 'competition' Which you (and I) know is a God-given thing Whereby the fittest get up to the top (That's I--or you) and tread down all the others. Well, this man sees how by this God-given thing He has the chance to use his extra wits And clamber up: he sees how others have-- (Like you--or me; my father's father's father Was a market-gardener and, I trust, a good one). He sees, moreover, how perpetually Each of his fellows who has extra wits Has used them as the fox fallen in the well Used the confiding goat, and how the goats More and more wallow there and stupefy, Robbed of the little wit the hapless crowd Had in their general haplessness. Well, then This man of mine (This is against all law, Human, divine and natural, I admit) Prefers to wallow there and not get out, Except they all can! I've made quite a tale About what is quite simple. Yet 'tis curious, As I see you hold. Now frankly tell me, will you, What do you think of him?"--"_He is a fool_!"-- "He is a fool? There is no doubt of it! But I am told that it was some such fool Came once from Galilee, and ended on A criminal's cross outside Jerusalem,-- And that this fool, he and his criminal's cross, Broke up an Empire that seemed adamant, And made a new world which, renewed again, Is Europe still. He is a fool! And it was some such fool Drudged up and down the earth these later years, And wrote a Book the other fools bought up In tens of thousands, calling it a Gospel. And this fool too, and the fools that follow him, Or hold with him, why, he and they shall all End in the mad-house, or the gutter, where They'll chew the husk of their mad dreams, and die! For what are their follies but dreams? They have _done_ nothing, And never will! . . . One moment! I have just a word to say. How comes it, tell me, friend, six weeks ago A 'comp.' was sent a-packing for a cause His fellows thought unjust, and that same night (Or, rather, the next morning) in comes one To tell you (quite politely) that unless That 'comp.' was setting at his frame, they feared One of our greatest newspapers would not go That day a harbinger of light and leading To gladden and instruct its thousands? And, If I remember right, it did--and so did he, That wretched 'comp.,' set at his frame, and does! How came it also that three months ago Your brother, the shipowner, "sacked" a man Out of his ship, and bade him go to hell? And in the evening up came two or three, Discreetly asking him to state the cause? And when he said he'd see them with the other, (Videlicet, in hell), they said they feared, Unless the other came thence (if he was there), And was upon his ship to-morrow morning, It would not sail. It did not sail till noon, And he sailed with it! But this is all beside the point! Our 'comp.,' Who sweats there, and who will not write you 'leaders' Except to help a friend who's fallen ill, Why, he, beyond a doubt he is a fool!"

"MOUNT RENNIE." {95}

I. (_The Australian Press speaks_).

"Kill them! Yes, hang them all! They are fiends, just that! And we're all agreed fiends should be sent To a place that's hot.

"They were fiends, too, of themselves; They delighted in it! It's all their fault, their own fault! Don't listen a minute!

"Don't let anyone talk About 'fatality,' 'lot,' That sort of talk (excuse us!) Is just damned rot.

"You and I, p'raps, are what we're made. If I'm dying of phthisis, It's because my father passed on To me what the price is

"Of his excesses, and I, Overworked, come off worse. Just so; but, with these young fiends, It's quite the reverse.

"Their homes were happy and bright, (All _are_ in Australia). Their parents were good, kind, wise: No breath of failure

"Can be breathed on their education, Their childhood's surroundings, The healthy training that gives Youth morality's groundings.

"Those people who say That the larrikins come From that God-spat-out-thing, The Australian 'home'--

"The narrow harsh rule Of base mean parents, Whose played-out ideas drive All of good and of fair thence:

"That our prostitute girls Come from just the same Cause-- Why, these idiots know nothing Of facts, social laws!

"Kill them, then! Hang them all! We (like God) must be just. It was all their own faults, Not ours. . . . Dust to dust!"

II. (_The Time-Spirit speaks_.)

"Poor lads! And you for others' wrongs and sins Whose dead past greed and lust did never wince To make your fathers, mothers, and now you Miserable fiends in hell, must expiate, since

"We the more guilty, we the strong, the few, Whose triumph thrusts you down into the stew, Fear lest our victims rise and rend us, fear This problem mad we will not listen to!

"Victims, with her your fellow-victim here, Blind, deaf, dumb beasts, the hour shall yet appear When men, when justicers resolute-terrible, you Shall speak and all men tremble as they hear!"

"TYRANNY." (_Melbourne_.)

[_The Delegates speak_.]

"'Tyranny'? Yes, that's it! We are not afraid To face the word that's fit For what we've said!

"It's the tyranny of the Many, That will not allow There's the right to any To seek wealth and power now

"At the expense of the Many. Say, that one or this Works 'over hours': then he Drives us all to the abyss,

"Where, struggling together One rises again While the rest all together Are stifled and slain.

"From this death-strife of brothers Comes the tyranny of One. That's _your_ sort. But we others, _We prefer our own_!"

FROM A VERANDAH. (_Sydney_.) "_Armageddon_."

O city lapped in sun and Sabbath rest, With happy face of plenteous ease possessed, Have you no doubts that whisper, dreams that moan Disquietude, to stir your slumbering breast?

Think you the sins of other climes are gone? The harlot's curse rings in your streets--the groan Of out-worn men, the stabbed and plundered slaves Of ever-growing Greed, these are your own!

O'er you shall sweep the fiery hell that craves For quenchment the bright blood of human waves: For you, if you repent not, shall atone For Greed's dark death-holes with War's swarming graves!

"ELSIE:" A MEMORY.

Little elfin maid, Old, though scarce two years, With your big dark hazel eyes Tenderer than tears,

And your rosebud mouth Lisping jocund things, Breaking brooding silence with Wistful questionings!

Like a flower you grew While life's bright sun shone. Does the greedy spendthrift earth Heed a flower is gone?

No; but Love's fond ken, That gropes through Death's strange ways, Almost seems to hear your Voice, Seems to see your Face!

"NATIONALISM AND M'ILWRAITH!" THE QUEENSLAND ELECTIONS CRY, 1888.

Australia listened! Through the brawling game Of played-out rascals gambling for her gold, The rotten-hearted traitors who had sold For flimsy English gauds her righteous fame-- Through the foul hubbub, it did seem, there came The still small voice of nobler things untold. But now, but now with wonder manifold She hears a voice that calls her by her name!

Australia listens, as the mother wilt To hear her first-born cry. "Say, is it death, Or life and all life's hope made audible That thrills my heart and gives my spirit faith?" From out the gathering war-hosts leaps forth shrill The double cry, "_Australia_, _M'Ilwraith_!"

The dawn is breaking northward! Rise, O Sun, Australian Liberty, and give us light! And thou who through the dark and doubtful night With great clear eyes of patience looking on Even to that splendid hour REPUBLICAN, O know what things are with thee in the fight-- What hope and trust, what truth, what right, what might To never leave this work till it be done! Not as these others were, the helpless slaves Of each diurnal need and cringing debt, Australia's statesman, have we known thee yet!-- The world's great heroes call from a thousand graves: "_Thy land_, _a nation_, _cries to thee to be set_ _Free as the freedom of her ocean waves_!"

TO THE EMPEROR WILLIAM.

LONDON, May 15, 1889.--"The promised interview with the Emperor William was granted to-day to the delegates from the coal-miners now on strike in Westphalia; but the audience lasted for only ten minutes. The men asked that the Emperor would inquire into the merits of their case and the hardships under which they suffered. His Majesty replied that he was already inquiring into the matter. He then warned the miners that he would employ all his great powers to repress socialistic agitation and intrigue. If the slightest resistance was shown he would shoot every man so offending. On the other hand, he promised to protect them if peaceable."--_Cablegram_.

Son of a Man and grandson of a Man, Mannikin most miserable in thy shrunken shape And peevish, shrivelled-soul, is't _thou_ wouldst ape The thunder-bearer of Fate's blustering clan? Know, then, that never, since the years began, The terrible truth was surer of this word: "_Who takes the sword_, _shall perish by the sword_!" For mankind's nod makes mannikin and man.

Surely it was not shed too long ago, That Emperor's blood that stained the Northern snow, O thou King Stork aspiring that art King Log, Wild-boar that wouldst be, reeking there all hog; To teach thy brutish brainlessness to know Those who pulled down a lion can shoot a dog.

A STORY. (_For the Irish Delegates in Australia_.)

Do you want to hear a story With a nobler praise than "glory," Of a man who loved the right like heaven and loathed the wrong like hell? Then, that story let me tell you Once again, though it as well you Know as I--the splendid story of the man they call Parnell!

By the wayside of the nations, Lashed with whips and execrations, Helpless, hopeless, bleeding, dying, she, the Maiden Nation, lay; And the burthen of dishonour Weighed so grievously upon her That her very children hid their eyes and crept in shame away.

And there as she was lying Helpless, hopeless, bleeding, dying, All her high-born foes came round her, fleering, jeering, as they said: "What is freedom fought and won for? She is dead! She's down and done for!" And her weeping children shuddered as they crouched and whispered: "Dead!"

Then suddenly up-starting, All that throng before him parting, See, a man with firm step breaking through that central knot that gives; And, as by some dear lost sister, He knelt down, and softly kissed her, And he raised his pale, proud face, and cried: "She is not dead. She lives!

"O she lives, I say, and I here, I am come to fight and die here For the love my heart has for her like a slow consuming fire; For the love of her low lying, For the hatred deep, undying Of the robber lords who struck and stabbed and trod her in the mire!"

Then upon that cry bewildering, Some of them, her hapless children-- In their hearts there leaped up hope like light when night gives birth to day; And, as mocks and threats defied him, One by one they came beside him, Till they stood, a band of heroes, sombre, desperate, at bay!

And the battle that they fought there, And the bitter truth they taught there To the blinded Sister-Nation suffering grievously alway, All the wrong and rapine past hers, Of her lords and her task masters, Is not this the larger hope of all as night gives birth to day!

For the lords and liars are quaking At the People's stern awaking From their slumber of the ages; and the Peoples slowly rise, And with hands locked tight together, One in heart and soul for ever, Watch the sun of Light and Liberty leap up into the skies!

That's the story, that's the story With a nobler praise than "glory," Of the Man who loved the right like heaven and loathed the wrong like hell, And with calm, proud exultation Bade her stand at last a nation, Ireland, Ireland that is one name with the name of Charles Parnell!

AT THE INDIA DOCKS. A MEMORY OF AUGUST, 1883.

[The spectacle of the life of the London Dock labourers is one of the most terrible examples of the logical outcome of the present social system. In the six great metropolitan docks over 100,000 men are employed, the great bulk of whom are married and have families. By the elaborate system of sub-contracts their wages have been driven down to 4d., 3d., and even 2d. for the few hours they are employed, making the average weekly earnings of a man amount to 7, 6, and even 5 shillings a week! Hundreds and hundreds of lives are lost or ruined every year by the perilous nature of the work, and absolutely without compensation. Yet so fierce is the competition that men are not unfrequently maimed or even killed in the desperate struggles at the gates for the tickets of employment, guaranteeing a "pay" which often does not amount to more than a few pence! The streets and houses inhabited by this unfortunate class are of the lowest kind--haunts of vice, disease, and death, and the monopolistic companies are thus directly able to profit by their wholesale demoralization by ruthlessly crushing out, through the contractors, all efforts at organisation on the part of the men. To see these immense docks, the home of that more immense machine, British Commerce, crowded with huge and stately ships, steamers, and sailors the first in the world, and to watch with intelligent eyes by what means the colossal work of loading and unloading them is carried out; this is to face a sacrificial orgy of human life--childhood, youth, manhood, womanhood, and age, with everything that makes them beautiful and ennobling, and not merely a misery and a curse--far more appalling than any Juggernaut progress or the human holocausts that were offered up to Moloch.]

I stood in the ghastly gleaming night by the swollen, sullen flow Of the dreadful river that rolls her tides through the City of Wealth and Woe; And mine eyes were heavy with sleepless hours, and dry with desperate grief, And my brain was throbbing and aching, and mine anguish had no relief. For never a moment--no; not one--through all the dreary day, And thro' all the weary night forlorn, would the pitiless pulses stay Of the thundering great Machinery that such insistence had, As it crushed out human hearts and souls, that it slowly drove me mad.

And there, in the dank and foetid mist, as I, silent and tearless, stood, And the river's exhalations, sweating forth their muddy blood, Breathed full on my face and poisoned me, like the slow, putrescent drain That carries away from the shambles the refuse of flesh and brain-- There rose up slowly before me, in the dome of the city's light, A vast and shadowy Substance, with shafts and wheels of might, Tremendous, ruthless, fatal; and I knew the visible shape Of that thundering great Machinery from which there was no escape.

It stood there high in the heavens, fronting the face of God, And the spray it sprinkled had blasted the green and flowery sod All round where, through stony precincts, its Cyclopean pillars fell To its adamantine foundations that were fixed in the womb of hell. And the birds that, wild and whirling, and moth-like, flew to its glare Were struck by the flying wheel-spokes, and maimed and murdered there; And the dust that swept about its black panoply overhead, And the din of it seemed to shatter and scatter the sheeted dead.