For all these shall be ours and all men's; nor shall any lack a share Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows fair. Ah! such are the days that shall be! But what are the deeds of to-day, In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away? Why, then, and for what are we waiting? There are three words to speak; WE WILL IT, and what is the foeman but the dream-strong wakened and weak? O why and for what are we waiting? while our brothers droop and die, And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by. How long shall they reproach us where crowd on crowd they dwell, Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold-crushed, hungry hell? Through squalid life they labored, in sordid grief they died, Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England's pride. They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse; But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse? It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door For the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the poor. Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their un learned discontent, We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent. Come, then, since all things call us, the living and the dead, And o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed. Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest, For the Cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best. Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail, Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail. Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least, we know: That the Dawn and the Day is coming, and forth the Banners go. 731 THE DAYS THAT WERE WHILES in the early winter eve 732 JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY A WHITE ROSE THE red rose whispers of passion, And the white rose is a dove. But I send you a cream-white rosebud ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR O'SHAUGHNESSY 733 [1844-1881] WE are the music-makers, And we are the dreamers of dreams, And sitting by desolate streams; On whom the pale moon gleams: With wonderful deathless ditties 734 We, in the ages lying In the buried past of the earth, And Babel itself with our mirth; ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN [1841-1901] Liz THE crimson light of sunset falls Through the grey glamour of the murmuring rain, And creeping o'er the housetops crawls Through the black smoke upon the broken pane, Steals to the straw on which she lies, And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks, The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark, And dies upon the breast of Night, Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark. 735 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE [1837-1909] CHORUS FROM 'ATALANTA' WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamour of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendour and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remember'd is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes, The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. |