The Lying Spirit! "Doctrine hard!" some mutter,

Dictated by unsympathetic scorn;

A doctrine that on light would draw the shutter,

And close the opening gateways of the morn.

No so; no guiding light would Punch extinguish,

Or chill true champion of the toiling crowd;

But wisdom at its kindliest must distinguish

Between true guides and tricksters false as loud.

The blameless King his headlong knights upbraided

In kindly grief for "following foolish fires,"

False flames that in mere dun marsh-darkness faded,

Leaving lost votaries to its mists and mires;

And here's an ignis fatuus, fired by folly,

And moved by violence as fierce as blind;

The gulf before's a bourne most melancholy,

And what of those fast following behind?

Well-meaning hearts, maybe, all expectation

Of glittering gains upon a perilous road,

Stirred by wild whirling words to keen elation,

Pricked on by poverty's imperious goad;

Hoping,—as who of hope shall be forbidden?—

Striving,—as who hath not the right to strive?—

For flaunted gain through perils shrewdly hidden!

Oh, labourers hard in Industry's huge hive,

What wonder, if, ill-paid and tired, you hasten

To follow the loud bauble and the lure,

Or gird at those who your wild hopes would chasten,

Or guide you on a pathway more secure!

And yet beware! No oriflamme of battle

Is that false radiance round yon impish brow.

The jester's bladder-bauble, with its rattle

Of prisoned peas, is not the tow-row-row

Of Labour's true reveillé. Bonnet Phrygian,

Cap of sham Liberty, the spectre wears;

But he will plunge to depths of darkness Stygian

Whom anti-civic Violence ensnares.

Plain Justice, honest Hope are good to follow,

But Insubordination, fierce and blind,

Mouthing out furious threat or promise hollow.

Is the sworn foe of civilised mankind;

Breaking up ancient bonds of love and duty,

All social links that bear abiding test,

With no sound promise of a better beauty,

A fairer justice, or a truer rest.

No; patient Labour, with its long-borne burden

And guardian Force, with its thrice-noble trust,

Claim from the State the fullest, freest guerdon,

And all wise souls, all spirits fair and just,

Must back the Great Appeal that Time advances,

And Progress justifies in this our time.

But civic Violence, in all circumstances

Now like to hap, is anti-social crime,

Foul in its birth and fatal in its issue.

Tyrannic act, incendiary speech,

Recklessly rend the subtly woven tissue

That binds Society's organs each to each.

Strong Toiler, deft Auxiliar, stalwart Warder,

Your hour has struck, your tyrants face their doom,

But let hot haste unsettle temperate order,

And Hope's bright disc will feel eclipse's gloom.

This is a lying spirit, sly and sinister,

Its promise false, its loud incitements vain.

Not to your true advantage shall it minister,

Mere Goblin Gold its glittering show of Gain:

Spectre of Chaos and the Abyss, it flutters

Before you flaunting high its foolish fire,

But there's a lie in each loud word it utters,

And its true goal is Anarchy's choking mire!