Classic Poem

Oh ! I am sick of this degrading strife,
This harsh reiteration of a theme
Which men call Politics,—this lust of power
By those who would abuse the precious boon,—
This yearning after fame, or infamy—
(They care not which, so the base end be won;)—
This cant of patriotism, too, from lips
That sell their country with a Judas kiss;—
This restless striving for unhallowed gain,—
This false ambition, which, exalting one,
Brings unprotected thousands to the dust;
This mockery of millions who have toiled,
Yet pine for bread for which they toil in vain!
Is it not sad to see a mass of men,—
The sinews of the State—the heart of wealth—
The never-failing life-blood of the land;—
Is it not sad to see them stand like trees,
Swayed by the breath of every wind that blows:—
Drinking with greedy ear the specious tale
Of some deluding orator? And, when
The artful speaker with a flourish makes
The accustomed pause, shouting they know not why,—
Acting they know not how,—till, having sent
The exulting demagogue in triumph home,
They find, alas! what they have ever found,
For freedom—scorn, and words instead of bread.
When will this suffering people learn to think,
And, thinking, learn to know the good from ill,—
The true from false,—the metal from the dross?
When will they watch their own frail steps, and shun
That subtle serpent shining in their path,
Whose glance is danger, and whose tongue is death?
Behold, the town is all astir; each house
Sends forth its eager inmates; to and fro,
Promiscuous crowds are hurrying in haste,
With haggard looks, and savage. In the air
Gay banners flaunt it bravely; square and street
Echo the sounds of music, and the shouts
Of gathered multitudes. In Reason's eyes,
This is a foolish jubilee of shame,
When Britons sell their manhood for a promise—
“Kept to the ear but broken to the hope.”
A few more hours of riotous display—
Of wolfish warfare and of party strife—
And Night shall draw her curtain o'er a scene
Unworthy of the glory of the sun:
Then shall this mass of artizans retire
To pass the midnight in a rude debauch,
Till Morn shall wake them to a painful sense
Of all that was and is;—babes without food,—
Wives without peace,—themselves without a hope
Of aught save vengeance for a thousand wrongs!
Poor sons of toil! your destiny is dark,
Without the light of Knowledge; sad your lot,
Without the cheering influence of Truth;
Vain your resolves, till Virtue shall inspire
Your souls with moral dignity, and bring
The power to win what God has given for all
Come, let me turn from this tumultuous din
Of human voices—this discordant jar
Of human thoughts and passions,—let me turn
To live and think for some few fleeting hours,
In the calm presence of unsullied Nature,
Where I could live for ever, were it not
That I had sympathy with man, and hope
To walk with him the way to happier times
Where now I stand the very sky puts on
A frowning face,—the very sky puts on
With falsehood and corruption. Fast and far,
I fly contamination, till at length
The mingled uproar of the distant town
Sounds like the moaning of a far-off sea.
I pause to rest and meditate, and lo!
The fresh, fair country smiles upon me; skies
Bend in their brightness o'er me; slumbering woods
Keep twilight yet, save where the parted boughs
Let in brief intervals of golden day.
Like living things of music and of light,
Streams dance upon their journey,—pastures green,
Studded with quiet cattle, calmly give
Their verdurous bosoms to the summer sun;
Luxuriant meadows, sighing for the scythe,
And prodigal of beauty, rise and fall
Beneath the frolic footsteps of the breeze.
The birds, with ceaseless voices, fill the ear
With pure and delicate melody; the lark,
Caged in the centre of a silvery cloud,
Lets fall a shower of gladness upon earth;
The desultory bees that sing and toil,
Fill up the chorus with their soothing hum;
The flowers, from tiny chalices, pour out
A draught of fragrance for the thirsty soul;
All, all is harmony, and light, and bloom,
Freedom and freshness, peacefulness and joy.
Oh! thou Almighty and Beneficent God!
Beneath thy span of glorious heaven, I kneel
Upon thine own fair earth, and ask of thee
The boon of truth and liberty for man!
Look down, I pray thee, on this groaning land,
Where Wrong rides rampant o'er the prostrate form
Of helpless Right,—where crime of every shape
Is rife, and that of greatest magnitude
Allowed to go unpunished;—true it is,
That harsh Injustice is the chief of all
The flower of social virtue scarcely lives,
But droops and saddens 'mid the weeds of vice
That grow on every side. Gaunt Famine sits
Upon the threshold of a thousand homes;
The holy bonds of brotherhood are loosed,
And Man, a worshipper of Self, lifts up
His hand against his neighbour. Every door
Of misery and death is opened wide:
Madness, and suicide, and murder bring
Unnumbered victims to the ready grave;
In parish prisons many pine and die,
And many on their own cold hearths unseen;
Some, bolder than their fellows in distress,
Snatch at the means of life, and find their way
To lonely dungeons, and are sent afar,
From wife and children severed, o'er the seas,
Or else, perchance, the gallows is their fate,
Which waits to take them from a cruel world.
O God of Mercy, Justice, Love, and Peace!
How long must we despair? When wilt Thou make
This part of Thy creation like the rest?
Thy universe is wonderful, and vast,
And beautiful, and pure—sustained and kept
By Thee in perfect harmony for ever!
Then why should Man, thine image, still remain
The jarring string of thine eternal harp?
Bright Essence of all Good! Oh, deign to give
To human hearts a portion of the bliss
Which Thou hast promised in thy written Word!
Give to the nations liberty, and love,
And plenty of the fruits of thy fair earth,
And charity, and knowledge, and a thirst
For Truth's bright fountains, and a trusting hope
To share, at last, thine immortality!