u_ as Labour's
true friend?--
Will you give us a prosperous morrow, and comfort the millions who
weep?
Will you give them joy for their sorrow, sweet labour, and
satisfied sleep?
Sweet is the fragrance of flowers, and soft are the wings of the
dove,
And no goodlier gift is there given than the dower of brotherly
love;
But you, O May-Day Medusa, whose glance makes the heart turn cold,
Art a bitter Goddess to follow, a terrible Queen to behold.
We are sick of spouting--the words burn deep and chafe: we are fain,
To rest a little from clap-trap, and probe the wild promise of gain.
For new gods we know not of are acclaimed by all babbledom's breath,
And they promise us love-inspired life--by the red road of hatred
and death.
The gods, dethroned and deceased, cast forth--so the chatterers
say--
Are banished with Flora and Pan, and behold our new Queen of the
May!
New Queen, fresh crowned in the city, flower-drest, her
snake-sceptre a rod,
Her orb a decked dynamite bomb, which shall shatter all earth at
her nod;
But for us their newest device seems barren, and did they but dare
To bare the new Queen of the May, were she angel or demon _when_
bare?

Time and old gods are at strife; we dwell in the midst thereof,
And they are but foolish who curse, and they are but shallow who
scoff.
Let hate die out, take rest, poor workers, be all at peace;
Let the angry battle abate, and the barren bitterness cease!
Ah, pleasant and pastoral picture! Thrice welcome whoever shall
bring
The sunshine of love after Winter, the blossoms of joy with the
Spring!
Wilt THOU bring it, O new May Queen? If thou canst, come and rule
us, and take
The laurel, the palm, and the paean; all bondage but thine we would
break,
And welcome the branch and the dove. But we look, and we hold our
breath,
That is not the visage of Love, and beneath the piled blossoms
lurks--Death!

A Society all of Love and of Brotherhood! Beautiful dream!
But alas for this Promise of May! Do not Labour's Floralia seem
As flower-feasts fair to her followers? Look on the wreaths at her
feet,
Flung by enthusiast hands from the mine, and the mill, and the
street,
Piled flower-offerings, thine, Proletariat Queen of