You are at least a man, of men a king.
You have a heart, and with that heart you love.
The race you come from is not gendered of
The filthy sty whose latest litter cling
Round England’s flesh-pots, gorged and gluttoning.
No, but on flaming battle-fields, in courts
Of honour and of danger old resorts,
The name of Hohen-Zollern clear doth ring.
O Father William, you, not falsely weak,
Who never spared the rod to spoil the child,
Our mighty Germany, we only speak
To bless you with a blessing sweet and mild,
Ere that near heaven your weary footsteps seek
Where love with liberty is reconciled.
SONG OF THE DISPOSSESSED.
“to jesus.”
“Be with us by day, by night,
O lover, O friend;
Hold before us thy light
Unto the end!
“See, all these children of ours
Starved and ill-clad.
Speak to thy heart’s lily-flowers,
And make them glad!
“Our wives and daughters are here,
Knowing wrong and shame’s touch
Bid them be of good cheer
Who have lovèd much.
“And we, we are robbed and oppressed,
Even as thine were.
Tell us of comfort and rest,
Banish despair!
“Be with us by day, by night,
O lover, O friend;
Hold before us thy light
Unto the end!”
ART.
Yes, let Art go, if it must be
That with it men must starve—
If Music, Painting, Poetry
Spring from the wasted hearth.
Pluck out the flower, however fair,
Whose beauty cannot bloom,
(However sweet it be, or rare)
Save from a noisome tomb.