Poems by Speranza

by Lady Wilde

VIII.

Still WORK, though the tramp of the weird spirit-horses,
Fall dull on the ear, like the clay upon corses;
Still Freedom must send forth her young heroes glowing,
Though her standard be red with their life-current flowing;
Still the preacher must cast forth the seed, as God's sower
Though he perish like grass at the scythe of the mower.