What cometh here from west to east awending?
And who are these, the marchers stern and slow?
We bear the message that the rich are sending Aback to those who bade them wake and know.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay, But one and all if they would dusk the day.
We asked them for a life of toilsome earning, They bade us bide their leisure for our bread;We craved to speak to tell our woeful learning:
We come back speechless, bearing back our dead.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay, But one and all if they would dusk the day.
They will not learn; they have no ears to hearken.
They turn their faces from the eyes of fate;Their gay-lit halls shut out the skies that darken.
But, lo! this dead man knocking at the gate.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay, But one and all if they would dusk the day.
Here lies the sign that we shall break our prison;Amidst the storm he won a prisoner's rest;But in the cloudy dawn the sun arisen Brings us our day of work to win the best.
Not one, not one, nor thousands must they slay, But one and all if they would dusk the day.
MAY DAY [1892]
THE WORKERS.
O Earth, once again cometh Spring to deliver Thy winter-worn heart, O thou friend of the Sun;Fair blossom the meadows from river to river And the birds sing their triumph o'er winter undone.
O Earth, how a-toiling thou singest thy labour And upholdest the flower-crowned cup of thy bliss, As when in the feast-tide drinks neighbour to neighbour And all words are gleeful, and nought is amiss.
But we, we, O Mother, through long generations, We have toiled and been fruitful, but never with thee Might we raise up our bowed heads and cry to the nations To look on our beauty, and hearken our glee.
Unlovely of aspect, heart-sick and a-weary On the season's fair pageant all dim-eyed we gaze;Of thy fairness we fashion a prison-house dreary And in sorrow wear over each day of our days.
THE EARTH.
O children! O toilers, what foemen beleaguer The House I have built you, the Home I have won?
Full great are my gifts, and my hands are all eager To fill every heart with the deeds I have done.
THE WORKERS.
The foemen are born of thy body, O Mother, In our shape are they shapen, their voice is the same;And the thought of their hearts is as ours and no other;It is they of our own house that bring us to shame.
THE EARTH.
Are ye few? Are they many? What words have ye spoken To bid your own brethren remember the Earth?
What deeds have ye done that the bonds should be broken, And men dwell together in good-will and mirth?
THE WORKERS.
They are few, we are many: and yet, O our Mother, Many years were we wordless and nought was our deed, But now the word flitteth from brother to brother:
We have furrowed the acres and scattered the seed.
THE EARTH.
Win on then unyielding, through fair and foul weather, And pass not a day that your deed shall avail.
And in hope every spring-tide come gather together That unto the Earth ye may tell all your tale.
Then this shall I promise, that I am abiding The day of your triumph, the ending of gloom, And no wealth that ye will then my hand shall be hiding And the tears of the spring into roses shall bloom.
