their muddy ruck And made them men; our foes once put to rout We give them justice; we have scorned to truck In gold for blood, and fatten on such spoil— To others be the gain, to us the toil. Oh, once more, England, let that voice ring out! 

 Alas! thou now dost hide thy Titan self In a drab's clothing, lies; whilst, false and shrill, Thy people squabble for the dirty pelf Of office, at the hustings; while they fill Our streets with lies, that, from the naked walls, Mouth blatantly upon us, open shame; While throughout Europe goes thy honoured name, Grimacing in a mask of Party brawls. 

 Bethink you, Leaders! How will history place Your name beside her others, if you fight With such-like weapons? Oh, be bold to face The conflict, tell the truth, as in your sight It does appear, with nothing false or base, —The nation's heart will know to choose aright— Be brave! Be true these days! Will you forget You are our Leaders, we, a people yet? 

 

 

 CONSOLATION 

 "Is there a pain to match my pain In all this world of woe; When to and fro on a barren earth My weary footsteps go? When no day's sun shall give me mirth And no stars blessed be; Because my heart goes hungry and lone For one who turns from me?" 

 Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith From out the ages dim: "As melt the snows your passion goes, And as dew it vanisheth. Take up, take up your burden of woe, Unblenching on your journey go, For man was born to reap and sow That earth might fruitful be." 

 "Is there a pain to match my pain, Who watch the small dead face, With the folded lips, and the folded lids And the cheek the dimples grace; Where they will come no more, no more?— Oh, small soft hands that hold So quietly, in rosy palms, My heart that's dead and cold." 

 Hear what the voice of all Sorrows saith: "Though still the little feet, Though the hands are chill, and the sweet form chill, And gone the childish breath; Take up, take up your burden of woe, For you were born to sorrow so, To bear in anguish, and lose in pain, That earth might be fulfilled." 

 "Is there a pain to match my pain Who loved all men on earth, Who saw the Godhead, through the shell That burdened them at birth; Who strove for right, who strove for good, Since love must win at last? —This hour they lead me out to die, With cords they make me 

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