Go to, for we who strain our power For light and warmth and scope, For wives’, for children’s happier hour, Can teach you faith and hope.
Hark to the shout of those who cleared The Missionary Ridge! Look on those dead who never feared The battle’s bloody bridge!
Watch the stern swarm at that last breach March up that came not thence— And learn Democracy can teach Divine obedience. { 33}
Pass through that South at last brought low Where loyal freemen live, And learn Democracy knows how To utterly forgive.
Come then, and take this free-given bread Of us who’ve scarce enough; Hush your proud lips, bow down your head And worship human love!
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.
“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_!”
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.
These social manners, charm and ease, Are hideous to who knows The degradation, the disease From which their beauty flows.
So, Poet, must thy singing be; O Painter, so thy scene; Musician, so thy melody, While misery is queen.