Press on

Press on, press on, ye Rulers, in the roused world's
forward track:
It moves too sure for ye to put the clock of Freedom
back!
We're gathering up from near and far, with souls in
fiery glow,
And Right doth bare its arm of might to bring the
spoilers low.
Kings, Priests, ye're far too costly, and we weary of
your rule j
We crown no more " Divinity," where Nature writeth
"Fool!"
Ye must not bar our glorious path as in the days
agone;
We know that God made Men, not Princes, Kings,
or Priests. — Press on!

Press on, press on, ah! "Nobles!" ye have play'd a
daring game;
Now falls your star of strength and fades the prestige
of your name:
Too long have ye been fed and nurst on human
blood and tears;
The naked truth is known, and Labour leaps to life,
and swears
His pride of strength to bloated Ease lie will no longer
give:
For all who live should labour; " Lords," then all
who work might live!
The combat comes! make much of what ye've wrung
from Fatherland!
Press on, press on! To-day we plead, To-morrow
we'll command.

Press on! a million pauper-brows bend down in
Misery's dust;
God's champions of the golden Truth still eat the
mouldy crust:
This damning curse of Tyrants must not kill the
nation's heart;
The spirit in a million Slaves doth pant, on fire to
start
And strive to mend the world, and walk in Freedom's
march sublime;
While myriads sink heart-broken, and the land o'er-
s warms with crime.
"O God!" they cry, "we die, we die, and see no
earnest won!"
Brothers, join hand and heart, and in the work press
on, press on!