The Pilgrims of Hope | Page 6

displayed The toys of
rich men's folly, by blinded labour made; And still from naught to
nothing the bright-skinned horses drew Dull men and sleek-faced
women with never a deed to do; While all about and around them the
street-flood ebbed and flowed, Worn feet, grey anxious faces, grey
backs bowed 'neath the load. Lo the sons of an ancient people! And for
this they fought and fell In the days by fame made glorious, in the tale
that singers tell.
We two we stood in the street in the midst of a mighty crowd, The
sound of its mingled murmur in the heavens above was loud, And earth
was foul with its squalor--that stream of every day, The hurrying feet of
labour, the faces worn and grey, Were a sore and grievous sight, and
enough and to spare had I seen Of hard and pinching want midst our
quiet fields and green; But all was nothing to this, the London holiday
throng. Dull and with hang-dog gait they stood or shuffled along,
While the stench from the lairs they had lain in last night went up in the
wind, And poisoned the sun-lit spring: no story men can find Is fit for
the tale of their lives; no word that man hath made Can tell the hue of
their faces, or their rags by filth o'er-laid: For this hath our age
invented--these are the sons of the free, Who shall bear our name
triumphant o'er every land and sea. Read ye their souls in their faces,
and what shall help you there? Joyless, hopeless, shameless, angerless,
set is their stare: This is the thing we have made, and what shall help us
now, For the field hath been laboured and tilled and the teeth of the
dragon shall grow.
But why are they gathered together? what is this crowd in the street?
This is a holiday morning, though here and there we meet The hurrying
tradesman's broadcloth, or the workman's basket of tools. Men say that
at last we are rending the snares of knaves and fools; That a cry from
the heart of the nation against the foe is hurled, And the flag of an
ancient people to the battle-breeze unfurled. The soldiers are off to the
war, we are here to see the sight, And all our griefs shall be hidden by
the thought of our country's might. 'Tis the ordered anger of England
and her hope for the good of the Earth That we to-day are speeding, and
many a gift of worth Shall follow the brand and the bullet, and our
wrath shall be no curse, But a blessing of life to the helpless--unless we

are liars and worse - And these that we see are the senders; these are
they that speed The dread and the blessing of England to help the world
at its need.
Sick unto death was my hope, and I turned and looked on my dear, And
beheld her frightened wonder, and her grief without a tear, And knew
how her thought was mine--when, hark! o'er the hubbub and noise,
Faint and a long way off, the music's measured voice, And the crowd
was swaying and swaying, and somehow, I knew not why, A dream
came into my heart of deliverance drawing anigh. Then with roll and
thunder of drums grew the music louder and loud, And the whole street
tumbled and surged, and cleft was the holiday crowd, Till two walls of
faces and rags lined either side of the way. Then clamour of shouts rose
upward, as bright and glittering gay Came the voiceful brass of the
band, and my heart beat fast and fast, For the river of steel came on,
and the wrath of England passed Through the want and the woe of the
town, and strange and wild was my thought, And my clenched hands
wandered about as though a weapon they sought.
Hubbub and din was behind them, and the shuffling haggard throng,
Wandering aimless about, tangled the street for long; But the shouts
and the rhythmic noise we still heard far away, And my dream was
become a picture of the deeds of another day. Far and far was I borne,
away o'er the years to come, And again was the ordered march, and the
thunder of the drum, And the bickering points of steel, and the horses
shifting about 'Neath the flashing swords of the captains--then the
silence after the shout - Sun and wind in the street, familiar things made
clear, Made strange by the breathless waiting for the deeds that are
drawing anear. For woe had grown into will, and wrath was bared of its
sheath, And stark in the streets of London stood the crop of the dragon's
teeth. Where