Classic Poem

This is the old, old story — story of Life and Fate:
Of love surpassing a woman's, and fiercer than woman's hate;
Of love for one's home and country — fighting with one intent:
Be it as small as a country, or as wide as a continent —
Be it republic or kingdom — snow-waste or sand-waste or sod —
Subject to gods or idols, or Christ or Allah — or God!

Black men, and brown men and white men; captains of realms brought low —
Slaves of the basest nations, and princes with youth aglow.
Chiefs of the sword — or the boar-spear — the lance or the nullah or axe;
From the Saxon Alfred and Harold, to the last of Tasmania's Blacks!
Strong men and brave men, and weaklings, who fought on the Weaker Side,
Till their bones gleamed white to the Heavens, and the country was " pacified " .

Cave or hut in the forest, or tent on the desert, was home —
Bare breasts of brave " Barbarians " barring the roads from Rome;
Shafts of the hairy Norsemen, ringing on plate and mail;
Spears from the shrouded desert, reddened to tell the tale,
Till our hammers rang on their statues, as we camped by temple and dome,
When we'd taught their shattered legions that all roads lead to Rome!

Red eyes watch from the branches (what ape-like men are these?)
Matted heads from their burrows in the roots of the giant trees:
Shapes that are human glide from the depths of the forest boles —
O the straightened scythes and sickles and the plough-shares bound to poles!
O the rush to certain slaughter, because of a monarch's crime,
Of the bands that bore no banner, and the feet that kept no time!

O the back-to-back resistance of the stubborn " boor " and " clown " —
O the wild song growing fainter, as the volleys mowed them down!
O the yell from Hell to Heaven, of a peasant fighting yet,
And the gasp of a throttled horseman, and the thrust of a bayonet!
O the blood-soaked coat of sheep-skin, and the hair thrust back to see
The triumph of blind oppression and the murder of Liberty!

And the folk of the peasant village flee to the marsh and mire,
Where the wives of charcoal burners are crouching afar from a fire.
And the old men and children huddle — while the village flames, for a sign —
Where the daughters of slaughtered swineherds hide from the greater swine.
A-tremble at every hoof-beat. Nobles! the time is near,
When your dainty ladies in terror shall hide them with less to fear!

This is the old, old story — Tear out the bricks and flags —
Shrilled by the starving children, screeched from the throats of hags;
Shrieked by the maniac mothers, roared by the maddened men,
Down from the roofs of hunger, and up from the sewered den!
Storm in the streets of Paris! Fire in village and town!
The blood of the " Vermin " is up and the blood of oppression is down!

Fire to the roofs of Moscow! wider and fiercer and higher —
(Holland could fight with water, but Moscow must fight with fire.)
We have different uses for fire. — Serfs! 'tis your country still!
Nobles of Russia! (or Poland!) Tyrants — or what you will —
We are patriots still, O Invasion! Where is your boasted might?
With the Russian Wolf on your left — and the Russian Bear on your right!

A horseman waits by the ferry, where no boat waits for a load —
Three lanterns hang from a belfry, and four hoofs ring on the road!
A call to the sleeping homesteads — men who have made a vow —
" If they want war and must have it, let it be here and now. "
Lightly they tread on the grasses, grasping the flintlock gun,
Shadowy figures of farmers in the woods of Lexington!

(America boasts no longer; this is the turning tide —
We have outgrown our Freedom, we have outgrown our pride;
We have outgrown our honour, we have outgrown our truth —
We of the younger nations — We have outgrown our youth!
Flintlock and truth and honour, " pepper-box " , pistol and pike,
Gave way to a race of liars, made way for the insane strike.)

Dawn on the slopes of Eureka! misty and cold and grey,
Clay-stained sons of the Nations (and their leader said " Let us pray. " )
Dawn on the slopes of Eureka — and Day in a Commonwealth?
Still as the years go over, tyranny creeps by stealth.
It is not day, my brothers, all is not well and right;
The volley from far Eureka is echoing here to-night!

Allah be praised! They'd wake us! Wake us if that must be!
Spear from the rock waste and desert and ages of mystery.
The Lion, the Bear and the Jackal in the goat's blood their thirst would slake.
Tripoli, Turkey and Persia, say, are these all you'll wake?
Beware of the East, O Christian, for the sake of your fairest and best;
It is written, and, written, remembered, that the tide of Invasion goes West .

You builded a wall, O China! to keep your enemies out;
You cradled the mightiest river and you conquered the flood and the drought.
Patient and peaceful and honest — children of Industry —
Wise with the wisdom of ages — yet they could not let you be!
Nor wall nor mountain nor ocean justice or peace could win.
You builded a wall, O China! Let them see that it keep you in .

England! Preserved from invasion through the stormy latter years —
Blind to the crimes of nations, and blind to their victims' tears!
Leave to the little people the barren and useless mile,
Turn to your own and save them, saving yourself the while!
Starved in the streets of London, children of misery —
England! do you not hear them? The Drums of Battersea!

Giving our youth and our old age, staking our best and our all —
Fighting in jungle and desert, firing from window and wall;
Whether we plan in a cellar, whether we plot in a den,
Or write while we starve in a garret, we are the leaders of men,
Hunted and murdered wherever the foot of Oppression has trod.
For the sake of Humanity aid us! We are thy rebels, O God!