“’Tis we make the bright hot blood
Of this throbbing inanimate thing;
And our life is no less the fuel
Than the coal we shovel and fling.
“And lest of this we be proud
Or anything but meek,
We are well cursed and paid—
Ten shillings a week!”
Round, round, round in its tunnel
The shaft turns pitiless strong,
While lost souls cry out in the darkness:
“How long, O Lord, how long?”
A MAHOMMADAN SHIP FIREMAN.
Up from the oven pit,
The hell where poor men toil,
At the sunset hour he comes
Clean-clothed, washed from soil.
On the fo’c’s’le head he kneels,
His face to the hallowed West.
He prays, and bows and prays.
Does he pray for death and rest?
TO INDIA.
O India, India, O my lovely land—
At whose sweet throat the greedy English snake,
With fangs and lips that suck and never slake,
Clings, while around thee, band by stifling band,
The loathsome shape twists, chaining foot and hand—
O from this death-swoon must thou never wake,
From limbs enfranchised these foul fetters to shake,
And, proud among the nations, to rise and stand?
Nay, but thine eyes, thine eyes wherein there stays
The patience of that august faith that scorns
The tinsel creed of Christ, dream still and gaze
Where, not within the timeless East and haze,
The haunt of that wan moon with fading horns,
There breaks the first of Himalayan morns!