Classic Poem

Morris

There was a time when wraiths of grey-white mist,
Like a mirage o'er far horizons hung,
Rose from the sea, pure as a bridal veil,
And made old England rare and beautiful;
But now, alas, ten thousand Stygian throats
Belch fumes of soot and grime before the sun.
The proud strut loftily with stern, high face
Of self-assured superiority.
The artisan who plies his native powers
In arts of peace is subjected to laws
So framed that unearned gain consumes
The product of his hand and brain and heart;
Humbly he walks before the face of those
Who eat the bread he earns, yet look on him
With scorning ill-concealed.

The money-lords
Who take, because they can, the wealth he earns,
Think all is peace while blight of bloodless war
Doth scar this England with a deeper wound
Than did her rose-hued, red-white wars of old.
There never can be peace while slaves make wealth
That curses its creators; while we yet
Turn eyes to heaven's smoke-tarnished light,
And call by other name than cowardice
Our base consent to banish the blue sky,
Erase the stars, and blot love out of life.
'Tis not an easy task to find a cure
For such a malady, 'tis harder still
To show the patient its necessity,
Before he learn it in the school of life.
Yon artsman, for example, needeth now
A wholesome lesson in simplicity.
True art doth not consist of mixt designs,
And yet he finds in his own heart a voice
That doth approve this strange complexity
And seal it with his soul's best certitude.
So must he toil till the true light shall shine.
Art is a living and eternal voice,
Speaks no dead language, never groweth old,
But shineth ever in perpetual youth.

What is the remedy for England's ills?
What balm will heal her hurt? This is my claim:
That every human hand should have such work
As shall be worth the doing, and, withal,
Pleasant to do, not over wearisome,
Nor burdened with too great anxiety,
A work that cannot fail of due reward.
“A dream,” you say. Then realize the dream,
And you transform the face of all the world.

A thorough revolution is its cost;
It is a most plain word, and good, and hath
A wholesome meaning, speaks of noble deeds,
Partings of ways, and onward-going feet
That shrink not, so they move to final peace,
From paths that over grim Golgothas rise,
Or lose themselves in sepulchres of flame.
But revolution hath not for its aim
Merely to mitigate the worker's lot;
What boots to make the burden somewhat less,
Yet leave the soul content and tolerant
Of bondage? That were but an artful lure
To bind him still more firmly in his chains.
The cure must change his whole relationship,
And make him master in the house of life
Till every vision that inspires his heart
Take shape from his soul-longings, till his hand
With grace and kingliness shall speak the word
His heart forevermore would sing, till he
Shall walk in strength of purpose with firm pace
And laugh and love, and labour and be glad.

Let England wake; freedom is at her door.
The light breaks over all our stately lands,
The law gives voice effective to the poor,
Religion cedes the private right to think,
And million-throated justice cries aloud
And begs admittance to our common life.
Already men to juster ways are moved,
And clear eyes see the day, not distant far,
When all shall labour freely, uncompelled,
Each doing what his soul most profits by,
And that which ministers the common good.
Then shall be wholesome life, blue skies, green meads,
A modest wealth, high aims, deep joys, great loves,
Leisure for rest, and all the charms of home.
The soul of beauty, finding here a shrine,
Shall dwell again within these sea-girt lands.

This is my word, my answer to your quest;
Henceforth I hang the canvas of this dream
In every gallery of life, show it
On private wall, in public corridor;
Outline the picture of my heart's great hope
On every object fashioned by my hand,
Till each new product of my skill, in joy
Of labour and of love begotten, be
As if it were my child; till every soul
Be glad as children in a garden, and
England be Merrie England once again.English