(A HYMN OF HONEST LABOUR.)
After the Proclamation of the Anarchist Manifestoes, (With Apologies to the Author of the magnificent "Hymn to Proserpine.")
["For the third time the International mobilises its battalions.... Already the mere mention of the magical word 'May-Day' throws the bourgeoisie into a state of nervous trembling, and its cowardice only finds refuge in cynicism and ferocity. But whether the wretch (the bourgeoisie) likes it or not, the end draws nigh. Capitalist robbery is going to perish in mud and shame.... The conscious proletariat organises itself, and marches towards its emancipation. You can have it all your own way presently; proletarians of the whole world, serfs of the factory, the men of the workshop, the office, and the shop, who are mercilessly exploited and pitilessly assassinated.... For, lo! '93 reappears on the horizon.... 'Vive l'Internationale des Travailleurs!'"—Manifesto of the May-Day Labour Demonstration Executive Committee.]
Have we lived long enough to have seen one thing, that hate hath no end?
Goddess, and maiden, and queen, must we hail you as Labour's true friend?—
Will you give us a prosperous morrow, and comfort the millions who weep?
Will you give them joy for their sorrow, sweet labour, and satisfied sleep?
Sweet is the fragrance of flowers, and soft are the wings of the dove,
And no goodlier gift is there given than the dower of brotherly love;
But you, O May-Day Medusa, whose glance makes the heart turn cold,
Art a bitter Goddess to follow, a terrible Queen to behold.
We are sick of spouting—the words burn deep and chafe: we are fain,
To rest a little from clap-trap, and probe the wild promise of gain.
For new gods we know not of are acclaimed by all babbledom's breath,
And they promise us love-inspired life—by the red road of hatred and death.
The gods, dethroned and deceased, cast forth—so the chatterers say—
Are banished with Flora and Pan, and behold our new Queen of the May!
New Queen, fresh crowned in the city, flower-drest, her snake-sceptre a rod,
Her orb a decked dynamite bomb, which shall shatter all earth at her nod;
But for us their newest device seems barren, and did they but dare
To bare the new Queen of the May, were she angel or demon when bare?
Time and old gods are at strife; we dwell in the midst thereof,
And they are but foolish who curse, and they are but shallow who scoff.
Let hate die out, take rest, poor workers, be all at peace;
Let the angry battle abate, and the barren bitterness cease!
Ah, pleasant and pastoral picture! Thrice welcome whoever shall bring
The sunshine of love after Winter, the blossoms of joy with the Spring!
Wilt THOU bring it, O new May Queen? If thou canst, come and rule us, and take
The laurel, the palm, and the pæan; all bondage but thine we would break,
And welcome the branch and the dove. But we look, and we hold our breath,
That is not the visage of Love, and beneath the piled blossoms lurks—Death!
A Society all of Love and of Brotherhood! Beautiful dream!
But alas for this Promise of May! Do not Labour's Floralia seem
As flower-feasts fair to her followers? Look on the wreaths at her feet,
Flung by enthusiast hands from the mine, and the mill, and the street,
Piled flower-offerings, thine, Proletariat Queen of the May!
And what means the new Bona Dea? and what would her suppliants say?
Organised strength, solidarity, power to band and to strike,
Hope that is native to Spring,—and Hate, in all seasons alike;
Mutual trust of the many—and menace malign for the few.
Citizen, capitalist,—ah! the hours of your empire seem few,
An empire ill-gendered, unjust, blindly selfish, and heartlessly strong
For the crushing of famishing weakness, the rearing of wealth-founded wrong.
Few, if these throngs have their will, for the fierce proletariat throbs
For revenge on the full-fed Bourgeoisie which ruthlessly harries and robs.
'Tis fired with alarms, and it arms with hot haste for the imminent fray,
For it quakes at the tramp of King Mob, and the thought of this Queen of the May.
The bandit of Capital falls, and shall perish in shame and in filth!
The harvest of Labour's at hand!—The harvest; but red is the tilth,
And the reapers are wrathful and rash, and the swift-wielded sickle that strives
For the sheaves, not the gleaners' scant ears, seems agog for the reaping of—lives!
Assassins of Capital? Aye! And their weakening force will ye meet
With assassins of Labour? Shall Brotherhood redden the field and the street?
Beware of the bad black old lesson! Behold, and look close, and beware!
There are flowers at your newly-built shrine, is the evil old serpent not there?
