Chants for Socialists | Page 5

need
To live upon this earth, our own,
In fair and manly deed.
The grief of slaves long passed away
For us hath forged the chain,
Till now each worker's patient day
Builds up the House of Pain.
And we, shall we too, crouch and quail,
Ashamed, afraid of strife,
And lest our lives untimely fail
Embrace the Death in Life?
Nay, cry aloud, and have no fear,
We few against the world;
Awake, arise! the hope we bear
Against the curse is hurled.
It grows and grows--are we the same,
The feeble band, the few?
Or what are these with eyes aflame,
And hands to deal and do?
This is the host that bears the word,
No MASTER HIGH OR LOW -
A lightning flame, a shearing sword,
A storm to overthrow.
ALL FOR THE CAUSE

Hear a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, When the
Cause shall call upon us, some to live, and some to die!
He that dies shall not die lonely, many an one hath gone before; He that
lives shall bear no burden heavier than the life they bore.
Nothing ancient is their story, e'en but yesterday they bled, Youngest
they of earth's beloved, last of all the valiant dead.
E'en the tidings we are telling was the tale they had to tell, E'en the
hope that our hearts cherish, was the hope for which they fell.
In the grave where tyrants thrust them, lies their labour and their pain,
But undying from their sorrow springeth up the hope again.
Mourn not therefore, nor lament it, that the world outlives their life;
Voice and vision yet they give us, making strong our hands for strife.
Some had name, and fame, and honour, learn'd they were, and wise and
strong;
Some were nameless, poor, unlettered, weak in all but grief
and wrong.
Named and nameless all live in us; one and all they lead us yet Every
pain to count for nothing, every sorrow to forget.
Hearken how they cry, "O happy, happy ye that ye were born
In the
sad slow night's departing, in the rising of the morn.
"Fair the crown the Cause hath for you, well to die or well to live
Through the battle, through the tangle, peace to gain or peace to give."
Ah, it may be! Oft meseemeth, in the days that yet shall be, When no
slave of gold abideth 'twixt the breadth of sea to sea,
Oft, when men and maids are merry, ere the sunlight leaves the earth,
And they bless the day beloved, all too short for all their mirth,
Some shall pause awhile and ponder on the bitter days of old, Ere the

toil of strife and battle overthrew the curse of gold;
Then 'twixt lips of loved and lover solemn thoughts of us shall rise; We
who once were fools and dreamers, then shall be the brave and wise.
There amidst the world new-builded shall our earthly deeds abide,
Though our names be all forgotten, and the tale of how we died.
Life or death then, who shall heed it, what we gain or what we lose?
Fair flies life amid the struggle, and the Cause for each shall choose.
Hear a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, When the
Cause shall call upon us, some to live, and some to die!
THE MARCH OF THE WORKERS
What is this, the sound and rumour? What is this that all men hear, Like
the wind in hollow valleys when the storm is drawing near, Like the
rolling on of ocean in the eventide of fear?
'Tis the people marching on.
Whither go they, and whence come they? What are these of whom ye
tell? In what country are they dwelling 'twixt the gates of heaven and
hell? Are they mine or thine for money? Will they serve a master well?
Still the rumour's marching on.
Hark the rolling of the thunder!
Lo the sun! and lo thereunder

Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,
And the host comes marching on.
Forth they come from grief and torment; on they wend toward health
and mirth,
All the wide world is their dwelling, every corner of the
earth. Buy them, sell them for thy service! Try the bargain what 'tis
worth,
For the days are marching on.

These are they who build thy houses, weave thy raiment, win thy wheat,
Smooth the rugged, fill the barren, turn the bitter into sweet, All for
thee this day--and ever. What reward for them is meet
Till the host comes marching on?
Hark the rolling of the thunder!
Lo the sun! and lo thereunder

Riseth wrath, and hope, and wonder,
And the host comes marching on.
Many a hundred years passed over have they laboured deaf and blind;
Never tidings reached their sorrow, never hope their toil might find.