The Dawn of Freedom

F old sat Freedom on the heights,

The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,
Self-gathered in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice
Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men revealed
The fulness of her face-

Grave mother of majestic works
From her isle-altar gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,
And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth.

The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine,

Make bright our days and light our dreams,

Turning to scorn with lips divine

The falsehood of extremes!

Tennyson.

England

OU ask me, why, tho' ill at ease,
Within this region I subsist,
Whose spirits falter in the mist,
And languish for the purple seas?

It is the land that freemen till,

That sober-suited Freedom chose,

The land, where girt with friends or foes A man may speak the thing he will;

A land of settled government,

A land of just and old renown,

Where Freedom slowly broadens down From precedent to precedent:

Where faction seldom gathers head,
But by degrees to fulness wrought,
The strength of some diffusive thought
Hath time and space to work and spread.

Tennyson.

Liberty

HY birthplace-where, young Liberty?
In graves, 'mid heroes' ashes.
Thy dwelling-where, sweet Liberty?
In hearts, where free blood dashes.

Thy best hope-where, dear Liberty?
In fast upwinging time.

Thy first strength-where, proud Liberty?
In thine oppressor's crime.

(B 828)

5

Thy safety-where, stray Liberty?
In lands where discords cease.
Thy glory-where, bright Liberty?
In universal Peace.

VOTE in the laws they make!
A home on the land I till!
Where the hearts of the many break
The cup of the few to fill.

By the right of their laws I pine;

But what are their laws to me?

For I live by right divine,

And that is the right to be free.
A home in my native isle!
A share in the wealth I heap!
Where the rich in their revel smile,
And the poor in their anger weep.

The strength that in numbers lies
Each hour is making known:
Pioneers of the truth, arise,
And you shall not be left alone!
We'll scatter their knavish rule
Like a prisoned storm set free,
Till tyrant and tyrant's tool
Have vanished from sea to sea.

At the word of the cruel few
The clouds of the battle frown:

But, as long as the many are true,
We'll say: let the storm come down-

And on as the masses sweep,

Our cry shall meet them still:

A share in the wealth we heap

A home in the land we till.
A home in my native isle,

A vote in the laws we keep,

Then the rich, if they like, may smile,

But the poor shall cease to weep.

Ernest Jones.

T

Holy Thursday

S this a holy thing to see

In a rich and fruitful land—

Babes reduced to misery,

Fed with cold and usurous hand?

Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!

And their sun does never shine,

And their fields are black and bare, And their ways are filled with thorns: It is eternal winter there.

For where'er the sun does shine,
And where'er the rain does fall,
Babes should never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appal.

William Blake.

Chartist Song-1838

HE time shall come when Wrong shall end,
When peasant to peer no more shall bend-
When the lordly Few shall lose their sway,
And the Many no more their frown obey.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done-
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter won!

The time shall come when the artisan
Shall homage no more the titled man—
When the moiling men who delve the mine
By Mammon's decree no more shall pine.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done-
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter won!
The time shall come when the weavers' band
Shall hunger no more in their fatherland—
When the factory-child can sleep till day,
And smile while it dreams of sport and play.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done-
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter won!

The time shall come when kingly crown
And mitre for toys of the Past are shown-
When the Fierce and False alike shall fall,
And Mercy and Truth encircle all.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free-
Till Mercy and Truth hold jubilee!

The time shall come when earth shall be

A garden of joy, from sea to sea,

When the slaughterous sword is drawn no more,
And goodness exults from shore to shore.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free

Till goodness shall hold high jubilee!

T. Cooper.