Merry Christmas Eve

Merry Christmas Eve! in the Palace where knavery
Crowds all the treasures the fair world can render:
Where spirits grow rusted in silkenest slavery,
And life is out-panted, in sloth, and in splendour:
In gladness and glory, Wealth's darlings were meeting,
And jewel-clasp t fingers linkt softly again;
New friendships were twining, and old friends were
greeting,
And twin hearts grew one, in God's golden love-
chain.

Merry Christmas Eve! in a poor man's grim hovel,
There huddled in silence a famishing family;
Church-bells were laughing in musical revel,
They heard the loud mockers, with brows throb-
bing clammily;
All in the merry time there they sat, mourning —
Two sons — two brothers — in penal chains bleeding;
Their hearts wandered forth to the never-returning,
Who rose on their vision, pale, haggard, and
pleading.

Merry Christmas Eve! for the rich, there was music,
And dancing, and many a wine woo'd on the board;

O Falstaff! you prince of Lies! 'twould have made
you sick,
To hear how they flattered a Mammonite Lo
Love-kisses sobbed out 'twixt the rollic and rout,
And Hope went forth, reaping-in long-promist
treasure.

What matter, tho' hearts might be breaking without?
Their moans were unheard in the palace of pleasure.

Merry Christmas Eve! but the stricken ones heard
No neighbourly welcome, no kind voice of kin;
They lookt at each other, but spake not a word,
While through crevice, and cranny, the sleet
drifted in.
In a desolate corner, one, hunger-kill'd, lay,
And the mother's hot tears were a bosom-babe's
food.
What marvel, O Statesman, what marvel, I, pray,
Such misery nurseth Crime's dark viper-brood?

O men, angel-imaged in Nature's fair mint,
And is it for this, ye were fashioned divine?
Ah, where's the god-stamp — Immortality's print?

We are tyrants and slaves, knit in one tortured
twine:
That a few, like to gods, may stride over the earth,
Millions, born to be murdered, are given in pawn;
When will the world quicken for Liberty's birth,
Which she waiteth, with eager wings beating the
dawn?

False Priests, dare ye say 'tis the will of our God,
(And shroud the Christ's message in dark sophistry,)
That these millions of paupers should bow to the
sod?

Up, up, trampled hearts, it's a lie! it's a lie!

They may carve " State " and " Altar " in characters
golden,
But Tyranny's symbols are ceasing to win;
Be stirring, O people, your scroll is unfolden,
And bright be the deeds ye emblazon therein.