rs inhabit there in pleasant ease.
We have no thing to ask of them save pity,
No answer they to give but what they please.
_Hallelujah_!

"Is it for ever, fathers, say, and mothers,
That we must toil and never know the light?
Is it for ever, sisters, say, and brothers,
That they must grind us dead here in the night?
_Hallelujah_!

"O we who sow, reap, knead, shall we not also
Have strength and pleasure of the food we make?
O we who hew, build, deck, shall we not also
The happiness that we have given partake?
_Hallelujah_!"

IN THE STREET.
LORD ----.

You have done well, we say it. You are dead,
And, of the man that with the right hand takes
Less than the left hand gives, let it be said
He has done something for our wretched sakes.
For those to whom you gave their daily bread
Rancid with God-loathed "charity," their drink
Putrid with man-loathed "sin," we bow our head
Grateful, as the great hearse goes by, and think.
Yes, you have fed the flesh and starved the soul
Of thousands of us; you have taught too well
The rich are little gods beyond control,
Save of your big God of the heaven and hell.
We thank you. This was pretty once, and right.
Now it wears rather thin. My lord, good night!

"LIBERTY!"

"Liberty!" Is that the cry, then?
We have heard it oft of yore.
Once it had, we think, a meaning;
Let us hear it now no more.

We have read what history tells us
Of its heroes, martyrs too.
Doubtless they were very splendid,
But they're not for me and you.

There were Greeks who fought and perished,
Won from Persians deathless graves.
Had _we_ lived then, we're aware that
We'd have been those same Greeks' slaves!

Then a Roman came who loved us;
Caesar gave men tongues and swords.
Crying "Liberty," they fought him,
Cato and his cut-throat lords.

When he'd give a broader franchise,
Lift the mangled nations bowed,
Crying "Liberty!" they killed him,
Brutus and his pandar crowd.

We have read what history tells us,
O the truthful memory clings!
Tacitus, the chartered liar,
Gloating over poisoned kings!

"Liberty!" The stale cry echoes
Past snug homesteads, tinsel thrones,
Over smoking fields and hovels,
Murdered peasants' bleaching bones.