The Patriot

AY, Tyrants, build your Babels! forge your fetters!

link your chains!
As brims your guilt-cup fuller, ours of grief ebbs to the
drains;

Still, as on Christ's brow, crowns of thorn for Free-
dom's Martyrs twine;
Still batten on live hearts, and madden, o'er the hot
blood-wine.
Murder men sleeping, or awake, — torture them dumb
with pain,
And tear, with hands all bloody red, the vesture of the
slain!
Your feet are on us, Tyrants — strike-! and hush Earth's
wail of sorrow:
Your sword of power, so red to-day, shall kiss the dust
to-morrow.
O! but 'twill be a merry day, the world shall set
apart,
When Strife's last brand is broken in the last crown'd
Tyrant's heart!
And it shall come, — despite of Rifle, Rope, and Rack,
and Scaffold,
Once more we lift the earnest brow, and battle on
unbaffled.

Our hopes ran mountains high, we sang at heart, wept
tears of gladness,
When France, the bravely beautiful, dasht down her
sceptred madness;
And Hungary her one-hearted race of mighty heroes
hurl'd
In the death-gap of nations, as a bulwark for the
world.
O Hungary! gallant Hungary! grand and glorious
thou wert,
The World's soul feeding, like a river, gushing from
God's heart;
And Rome, — who, while her heroes bled, felt her old
breast heave higher, —
How her eyes redden'd witTi the flash of all their
Roman fire!
Mothers of children, who shall live the Gods of future
story!
Your blood shall blossom from the dust, and crown the
world with glory.
Ye'll tread them down yet, curse and crown! uplift
the trodden Slave,
And Freedom shall be sovran in the courts of fool and
knave.

Wail for the hopes that have gone down! the young
life vainly spilt!

Th' Eternal Murder still sits crown'd and throned in
damning guilt:

Still in God's golden sun the Tyrant's bloody banners
burn,
And Priests, — Hell's midnight Thugs! — to their soul-
strangling work return!

See how the oppressors of the poor with serpents hunt
our blood;

Hear, from the dark, the groan and curse go mad-
dening up to God.
They kill and trample us poor worms, till earth is dead
men's dust;
Death's red tooth daily drains our hearts, but end, ay,
end it must.
The herald of our coming Christ leaps in the womb of
Time;
The poor's grand army treads the Age's march with
step sublime.
Ours is the mighty future! and what marvel, brother
men,
Should the devoured of ages rise and turn devourers
then?

O! brothers of the bounding heart, I look thro' tears
and smile,
The World is rife with sound of fetters snapping
'neath the file;

I lay my hand on England's heart/ and in each life-
throb mark,
The pealing thought of freedom ring its Tocsin in the
dark.
I see the Toiler hath become a glorious Christ-like
preacher,
And, as he wins a crust, stands proudly forth, the great
world-teacher;
He still toils on, but, Tyrants, 'tis a mighty thing when
slaves,
Who delve their lives into their work, know that they
delve your graves.

Anarchs! your doom comes swiftly! brave and eagle
spirits climb,
To ring Oppression's death-knell from the old watch-
towers of time;

A spirit of Cromwellian might is stirring at this hour,
And thought is burning in men's eyes with more than
speechful power.

Old England, cease the mummer's part! wake, Starve-
ling, Serf, and Slave!

Rouse in the majesty of wrong, great kindred of the
brave!

Speak, and the world shall answer, with her voices
myriad-fold,
And men, like Gods, shall grapple with the giant-
wrongs of old.

Now, Mothers of the people, give your babes heroic
milk;

Sires, soul your sons for daring deeds, no more soft
words of silk;

Great spirits of the mighty dead take shape, and walk
our mind,
Their glory smites our upward look, we seem no longer
blind;

They tell us how they broke their bonds, and whisper,
" So may ye:"

One sharp, stern struggle, and the slaves of centuries
are free!

The people's heart, with pulse like cannon, panteth for
the fray,
And brothers, gallant brothers, we'll be with you in
that day.