the tombs of the mighty dead;
And the wise men seeking out marvels, and the poet’s teeming head;

And the painter’s hand of wonder; and the marvellous fiddle-bow,
And the banded choirs of music:—all those that do and know.

For all these shall be ours and all men’s, nor shall any lack a share
Of the toil and the gain of living in the days when the world grows fair.

Ah! such are the days that shall be!  But what are the deeds of to-day,
In the days of the years we dwell in, that wear our lives away?

Why, then, and for what are we waiting?  There are three words to speak.
We will it, and what is the foeman but the dream-strong wakened and weak?

O why and for what are we waiting? while our brothers droop and die,
And on every wind of the heavens a wasted life goes by.

How long shall they reproach us where crowd on crowd they dwell,
Poor ghosts of the wicked city, the gold-crushed hungry hell?

Through squalid life they laboured, in sordid grief they died,
Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England’s pride.

They are gone; there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse;
But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse?

It is we must answer and hasten, and open wide the door
For the rich man’s hurrying terror, and the slow-foot hope of the poor.

Yea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched, and their unlearned discontent,
We must give it voice and wisdom till the waiting-tide be spent.

Come, then, since all things call us, the living and the dead
And o’er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.

Come, then, let us cast off fooling, and put by ease and rest
For the cause alone is worthy till the good days bring the best

Come, join in the only battle wherein no man can fail,
Where whoso fadeth and dieth, yet his deed shall still prevail.

Ah! come, cast off all fooling, for this, at least we know:
That the Dawn and the Day is coming, and forth the Banners go.

THE VOICE OF TOIL.

I heard men saying, Leave hope and praying,
   All days shall be as all have been;
To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow
   The never-ending toil between.

When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger,
   In hope we strove, and our hands were strong
Then great men led us, with words they fed us,
   And bade us right the earthly wrong.

Go read in story their deeds and glory,
   Their names amidst the nameless dead;
Turn then from lying to us slow-dying
   In that good world to which they led;

Where fast and faster our iron master,
   The thing we made, for ever drives,
Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure
   For other hopes and other lives.

Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel,
   Forgetting that the world is fair;
Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul perish
   Where our mirth is crime, our love a snare

Who now shall lead us, what god shall heed us
   As we lie in the hell our hands have won
For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers,
   The great are fallen, the wise men gone

I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying,
   The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep;
Are we not stronger than the rich and the wronger,