Bar the gates of Mammon Castle! See that troops are posted there!
I have seen the crimson banner of the children of Despair!
Here they come!
O here they come!
And their eyes are cowed no longer and their bloodless lips are dumb.
Here they come!

Let the monarchs make a treaty, for the pregnant hours declare
War against the social system by the Army of Despair!
Here it comes!
O here it comes!
Now defiant hymns are growling like the “roll of muffled drums”.
Here it comes!

This is not the petty struggle of a State against a State,

They stand to me, these men of mine,
Brigaded end to end,
And though we send nor hint nor sign,
All comprehend.

We raise the crimson falling flanks,
Ensanguin'd battles done;
Then, in well-knit, beseeming ranks,
We march from sun to sun.

In their forest camp at night,
A weary with their toil, the hunters slept,
And winds that thro' the piny branches crept
Seemed to whisper in their sweep:
“Sleep, drowsy dreamers, sleep;
Your watch-fires fright away the beasts of chase,
All harmless round your midnight camp they pace;
The breezes whisper and the running streams,
All, all is well; then peaceful be your dreams.”
In the soldiers' camp at night
The outlying pickets make their watchful round;
The sentry's rifle glitters in starlight;
Intent he listens for each warning sound,

After her bath, yet early in the day,
She donned a ketonet or tunica;
With gems enclasped it, close as a caress,
And smoothed its folds out o'er her loveliness
In fondly fashioned outlines. It was made
Of Persian satin, opaline and white,
Like moving mists around the moon arrayed,
Thro' which she shone, a lovelier light in light
Almost immortal: on a low divan
A fleecy texture tinted Tyrian,
Alone reclining, on each pliant knee
Her white feet poised by turns to sandalled be.
The sandal buckles were with gems aflame,

The red stove warms the room where a beautiful woman sleeps,
Beyond the curtains flying snow increases the coldness
In the small garden, they are playing mouth organs and singing,
The fragrant breeze gathers robes of silk and gauze
Wine is poured, the golden cups are full;
Amidst orchid musk, the feast is offered again
The young gentleman is as drunk as mud,
On the Avenue of Heaven his horse is heard neighing.

This wreath of flowers that bids thee wait
A moment at the trellised gate
Shall lure thee to enchanted ground
Where all the singing birds are found,
Where flows the fount that never fails,
The Garden of the Nightingales!

—Behold the slender star that lifts
The fringe of Winter's narrowing drifts;
The violet that with open wings
Lights where the first-born verdure springs;
The bell-wort, swinging in the breeze
As if to call the wandering bees
To taste the honeyed lymph that shines
Globed in the clustering columbines.

The very frequented
City of Naniwa
Is so near the sea
That one can see the boats ridden in by the fisher-women.

When the song is done,
And his heart is ashes,
Never praise the singer
Whom you, silent, heard.
What to him the sound?
What your eyes' fond flashes?
When the singing's over
Say no word!

Ye who darkling stood,
Think, your noon of praises,
Can it glimmer down
To his deepset bower?
Never round him shone
Once your garden mazes;
Now his wandering's over,
Bring no flower!

Old love would seem as though not love today:
Spell-bound by thee, my laughter dies away.
The very wax sheds sympathetic tears
And gutters sadly down till dawn appears.

Though but a dime, a simple dime,
I run a bright career,
And have a voice whose silvery chime,
Like music, wins the ear.

Where'er I go, I'm still received
With ready, grasping hand:
The rich, the poor, and the bereaved
My mission understand.

Yet ere I can my mission prove,
Though never seeking rest,
The miser, with a miser's love,
Oft locks me in his chest.

Imprisoned there I'm doomed to wait,
Still sighing to be free,
Until the tyrant yields to fate,
And heirs obtain the key.

In social circles, high and low,