Chapter 5

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.

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