| As I lay asleep in Italy |
| There came a voice from over the Sea, |
| And with great power it forth led me |
To walk in the visions of Poesy.
|
| I met Murder on the way— |
| He had a mask like Castlereagh— |
| Very smooth he looked, yet grim ; |
Seven blood-hounds followed him :
|
| All were fat ; and well they might |
| Be in admirable plight, |
| For one by one, and two by two, |
| He tossed them human hearts to chew |
Which from his wide cloak he drew.
|
| Next came Fraud, and he had on, |
| Like Lord Eldon, an ermined gown ; |
| His big tears, for he wept well, |
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.
|
| And the little children, who |
| Round his feet played to and fro, |
| Thinking every tear a gem, |
Had their brains knocked out by them.
|
| Clothed with the Bible, as with light, |
| And the shadows of the night, |
| Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy |
On a crocodile rode by.
|
| And many more Destructions played |
| In this ghastly masquerade, |
| All disguised, even to the eyes, |
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, and spies.
|
| Last came Anarchy : he rode |
| On a white horse, splashed with blood ; |
| He was pale even to the lips, |
Like Death in the Apocalypse.
|
| And he wore a kingly crown ; |
| And in his grasp a sceptre shone ; |
| On his brow this mark I saw— |
‘I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!’
|
| With a pace stately and fast, |
| Over English land he passed, |
| Trampling to a mire of blood |
The adoring multitude.
|
| And with a mighty troop around |
| With their trampling shook the ground, |
| Waving each a bloody sword, |
For the service of their Lord.
|
| And with glorious triumph they |
| Rode through England proud and gay, |
| Drunk as with intoxication |
Of the wine of desolation.
|
| O’er fields and towns, from sea to sea, |
| Passed the Pageant swift and free, |
| Tearing up, and trampling down ; |
Till they came to London town.
|
| And each dweller, panic-stricken, |
| Felt his heart with terror sicken |
| Hearing the tempestuous cry |
Of the triumph of Anarchy.
|
| For from pomp to meet him came, |
| Clothed in arms like blood and flame, |
| The hired murderers, who did sing |
‘Thou art God, and Law, and King.
|
| ‘We have waited weak and lone |
| For thy coming, Mighty One! |
| Our purses are empty, our swords are cold, |
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’
|
| Lawyers and priests a motley crowd, |
| To the earth their pale brows bowed ; |
| Like a bad prayer not over loud, |
Whispering—‘Thou art Law and God.’—
|
| Then all cried with one accord, |
| ‘Thou art King, and God, and Lord ; |
| Anarchy, to thee we bow, |
Be thy name made holy now!’
|
| And Anarchy, the Skeleton, |
| Bowed and grinned to every one, |
| As well as if his education |
Had cost ten millions to the nation.
|
| For he knew the Palaces |
| Of our Kings were rightly his ; |
| His the sceptre, crown, and globe, |
And the gold-inwoven robe.
|
| So he sent his slaves before |
| To seize upon the Bank and Tower, |
| And was proceeding with intent |
To meet his pensioned Parliament
|
| When one fled past, a maniac maid, |
| And her name was Hope, she said : |
| But she looked more like Despair, |
And she cried out in the air :
|
| ‘My father Time is weak and gray |
| With waiting for a better day ; |
| See how idiot-like he stands, |
Fumbling with his palsied hands!
|
| ‘He has had child after child, |
| And the dust of death is piled |
| Over every one but me— |
Misery, oh, Misery!’
|
| Then she lay down in the street, |
| Right before the horses feet, |
| Expecting, with a patient eye, |
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.
|
| When between her and her foes |
| A mist, a light, an image rose. |
| Small at first, and weak, and frail |
Like the vapour of a vale :
|
| Till as clouds grow on the blast, |
| Like tower-crowned giants striding fast, |
| And glare with lightnings as they fly, |
And speak in thunder to the sky.
|
| It grew—a Shape arrayed in mail |
| Brighter than the viper’s scale, |
| And upborne on wings whose grain |
Was as the light of sunny rain.
|
| On its helm, seen far away, |
| A planet, like the Morning’s, lay ; |
| And those plumes its light rained through |
Like a shower of crimson dew.
|
| With step as soft as wind it passed |
| O’er the heads of men—so fast |
| That they knew the presence there, |
And looked,—but all was empty air.
|
| As flowers beneath May’s footstep waken, |
| As stars from Night’s loose hair are shaken, |
| As waves arise when loud winds call, |
Thoughts sprung where’er that step did fall.
|
| And the prostrate multitude |
| Looked—and ankle-deep in blood, |
| Hope, that maiden most serene, |
Was walking with a quiet mien :
|
| And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, |
| Lay dead earth upon the earth ; |
| The Horse of Death tameless as wind |
| Fled, and with his hoofs did grind |
To dust the murderers thronged behind.
|
| A rushing light of clouds and splendour, |
| A sense awakening and yet tender |
| Was heard and felt—and at its close |
These words of joy and fear arose
|
| As if their own indignant Earth |
| Which gave the sons of England birth |
| Had felt their blood upon her brow, |
And shuddering with a mother’s throe
|
| Had turned every drop of blood |
| By which her face had been bedewed |
| To an accent unwithstood,— |
As if her heart cried out aloud :
|
| ‘Men of England, heirs of Glory, |
| Heroes of unwritten story, |
| Nurslings of one mighty Mother, |
Hopes of her, and one another ;
|
| ‘Rise like Lions after slumber |
| In unvanquishable number. |
| Shake your chains to earth like dew |
| Which in sleep had fallen on you— |
Ye are many—they are few.
|
| ‘What is Freedom?—ye can tell |
| That which slavery is, too well— |
| For its very name has grown |
To an echo of your own.
|
| ‘’Tis to work and have such pay |
| As just keeps life from day to day |
| In your limbs, as in a cell |
For the tyrants’ use to dwell,
|
| ‘So that ye for them are made |
| Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade, |
| With or without your own will bent |
To their defence and nourishment.
|
| ‘’Tis to see your children weak |
| With their mothers pine and peak, |
| When the winter winds are bleak,— |
They are dying whilst I speak.
|
| ‘’Tis to hunger for such diet |
| As the rich man in his riot |
| Casts to the fat dogs that lie |
Surfeiting beneath his eye ;
|
| ‘’Tis to let the Ghost of Gold |
| Take from Toil a thousandfold |
| More than e’er its substance could |
In the tyrannies of old.
|
| ‘Paper coin—that forgery |
| Of the title-deeds, which ye |
| Hold to something from the worth |
Of the inheritance of Earth.
|
| ‘’Tis to be a slave in soul |
| And to hold no strong control |
| Over your own wills, but be |
All that others make of ye.
|
| ‘And at length when ye complain |
| With a murmur weak and vain |
| ’Tis to see the Tyrant’s crew |
| Ride over your wives and you— |
Blood is on the grass like dew.
|
| ‘Then it is to feel revenge |
| Fiercely thirsting to exchange |
| Blood for blood—and wrong for wrong— |
Do not thus when ye are strong.
|
| ‘Birds find rest, in narrow nest |
| When weary of their wingèd quest ; |
| Beasts find fare, in woody lair |
When storm and snow are in the air.
|
| ‘Horses, oxen, have a home, |
| When from daily toil they come ; |
| Household dogs, when the wind roars, |
Find a home within warm doors.’
|
| ‘Asses, swine, have litter spread |
| And with fitting food are fed ; |
| All things have a home but one— |
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none !
|
| ‘This is Slavery—savage men, |
| Or wild beasts within a den |
| Would endure not as ye do— |
But such ills they never knew.
|
| ‘What art thou, Freedom ? O ! could slaves |
| Answer from their living graves |
| This demand—tyrants would flee |
Like a dream’s imagery :
|
| ‘Thou are not, as impostors say, |
| A shadow soon to pass away, |
| A superstition, and a name |
Echoing from the cave of Fame.
|
| ‘For the labourer thou art bread, |
| And a comely table spread |
| From his daily labour come |
In a neat and happy home.
|
| ‘Thou art clothes, and fire, and food |
| For the trampled multitude— |
| No—in countries that are free |
| Such starvation cannot be |
As in England now we see.
|
| ‘To the rich thou art a check, |
| When his foot is on the neck |
| Of his victim, thou dost make |
That he treads upon a snake.
|
| ‘Thou art Justice—ne’er for gold |
| May thy righteous laws be sold |
| As laws are in England—thou |
Shield’st alike both high and low.
|
| ‘Thou art Wisdom—Freemen never |
| Dream that God will damn for ever |
| All who think those things untrue |
Of which Priests make such ado.
|
| ‘Thou art Peace—never by thee |
| Would blood and treasure wasted be |
| As tyrants wasted them, when all |
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.
|
| ‘What if English toil and blood |
| Was poured forth, even as a flood ? |
| It availed, Oh, Liberty. |
To dim, but not extinguish thee.
|
| ‘Thou art Love—the rich have kissed |
| Thy feet, and like him following Christ, |
| Give their substance to the free |
And through the rough world follow thee,
|
| ‘Or turn their wealth to arms, and make |
| War for thy belovèd sake |
| On wealth, and war, and fraud—whence they |
Drew the power which is their prey.
|
| ‘Science, Poetry, and Thought |
| Are thy lamps ; they make the lot |
| Of the dwellers in a cot |
So serene, they curse it not.
|
| ‘Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, |
| All that can adorn and bless |
| Art thou—let deeds, not words, express |
Thine exceeding loveliness.
|
| ‘Let a great Assembly be |
| Of the fearless and the free |
| On some spot of English ground |
Where the plains stretch wide around.
|
| ‘Let the blue sky overhead, |
| The green earth on which ye tread, |
| All that must eternal be |
Witness the solemnity.
|
| ‘From the corners uttermost |
| Of the bounds of English coast ; |
| From every hut, village, and town |
| Where those who live and suffer moan |
For others’ misery or their own,
|
| ‘From the workhouse and the prison |
| Where pale as corpses newly risen, |
| Women, children, young and old |
Groan for pain, and weep for cold—
|
| ‘From the haunts of daily life |
| Where is waged the daily strife |
| With common wants and common cares |
Which sows the human heart with tares—
|
| ‘Lastly from the palaces |
| Where the murmur of distress |
| Echoes, like the distant sound |
Of a wind alive around
|
| ‘Those prison halls of wealth and fashion. |
| Where some few feel such compassion |
| For those who groan, and toil, and wail |
As must make their brethren pale—
|
| ‘Ye who suffer woes untold, |
| Or to feel, or to behold |
| Your lost country bought and sold |
With a price of blood and gold—
|
| ‘Let a vast assembly be, |
| And with great solemnity |
| Declare with measured words that ye |
Are, as God has made ye, free—
|
| ‘Be your strong and simple words |
| Keen to wound as sharpened swords, |
| And wide as targes let them be, |
With their shade to cover ye.
|
| ‘Let the tyrants pour around |
| With a quick and startling sound, |
| Like the loosening of a sea, |
Troops of armed emblazonry.
|
| ‘Let the charged artillery drive |
| Till the dead air seems alive |
| With the clash of clanging wheels, |
And the tramp of horses’ heels.
|
| ‘Let the fixèd bayonet |
| Gleam with sharp desire to wet |
| Its bright point in English blood |
Looking keen as one for food.
|
| ‘Let the horsemen’s scimitars |
| Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars |
| Thirsting to eclipse their burning |
In a sea of death and mourning.
|
| ‘Stand ye calm and resolute, |
| Like a forest close and mute, |
| With folded arms and looks which are |
Weapons of unvanquished war,
|
| ‘And let Panic, who outspeeds |
| The career of armèd steeds |
| Pass, a disregarded shade |
Through your phalanx undismayed.
|
| ‘Let the laws of your own land, |
| Good or ill, between ye stand |
| Hand to hand, and foot to foot, |
Arbiters of the dispute,
|
| ‘The old laws of England—they |
| Whose reverend heads with age are gray, |
| Children of a wiser day ; |
| And whose solemn voice must be |
Thine own echo—Liberty !
|
| ‘On those who first should violate |
| Such sacred heralds in their state |
| Rest the blood that must ensue, |
And it will not rest on you.
|
| ‘And if then the tyrants dare |
| Let them ride among you there, |
| Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew, — |
What they like, that let them do.
|
| ‘With folded arms and steady eyes, |
| And little fear, and less surprise, |
| Look upon them as they slay |
Till their rage has died away.’
|
| ‘Then they will return with shame |
| To the place from which they came, |
| And the blood thus shed will speak |
In hot blushes on their cheek.
|
| ‘Every woman in the land |
| Will point at them as they stand— |
| They will hardly dare to greet |
Their acquaintance in the street.
|
| ‘And the bold, true warriors |
| Who have hugged Danger in wars |
| Will turn to those who would be free, |
Ashamed of such base company.
|
| ‘And that slaughter to the Nation |
| Shall steam up like inspiration, |
| Eloquent, oracular ; |
A volcano heard afar.
|
| ‘And these words shall then become |
| Like Oppression’s thundered doom |
| Ringing through each heart and brain. |
Heard again—again—again—
|
| ‘Rise like Lions after slumber |
| In unvanquishable number— |
| Shake your chains to earth like dew |
| Which in sleep had fallen on you— |
| Ye are many—they are few.’ |
David Shepardson
