A Cry of the Peoples

Like a strong man in torture, the weary world
turneth,
To clutch Freedom's robe round her slavery's
starkness:
With shame and with shudder, poor Mother! she
yearneth
O'er wrongs that are done in her dearth and her
darkness.

O gather thy strength up, and crush the Abhorred,
Who murder thy poor heart, and drain thy life-
springs,
And are crowned to hide the Cain-brand on their
forehead:
O let them be last of the Queens and the Kings!

By the lovers and friends we have tenderly cherisht,
Who made the Cause soar up like flame at their
breath;

Who struggled like Gods met in fight, and have
perisht
In poverty's battle, with grim daily death:
O, by all dear ones that bitterly plead for us —
Life-flowers tied up in the heart's breaking strings —
Sisters that weep for us — mothers that bleed for us — '
Let these be last of the Queens and the Kings!

Sun and Rain kindle greenly the graves of our
Martyrs,
Ye might not tell where the brave blood ran like
rain!
But there it burns ever! and heaven's weeping waters
And branding suns never shall whiten the stain!
Remember the hurtling the Tyrants have wrought us,
And smite till each helm bravely flashes and rings!
Life for life, blood for blood, is the lesson they've
taught us,
And be these the last of the Queens and the Kings!

Ho! weary Nightwatch, is there light on the summit!

Yearner up through the Night, say, is there hope?
For deeper in darkness than fathom of plummet,
Our Bark thro' the tempest doth stagger and
grope!
" To God's unforgiven, to caitiff and craven —
To Crown and to Sceptre, a cleaving curse clings:
Ye must fling them from deck, would ye steer into
haven,
For Death tracks the last of the Queens and the
Kings! "