Deeds will be done,—while he boasts his qui

escence,

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declin'd, one more foot-path

untrod,

One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to

God!

Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!

There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight,

Never glad confident morning again!

Best fight on well, for we taught him-strike gallantly,

Menace our heart ere we master his own;

Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait

us,

Pardon'd in heaven, the first by the throne!

1845.

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Robert Browning.

THE VOICE OF TOIL

I HEARD men saying, Leave hope and praying, All days shall be as all have been;

To-day and to-morrow bring fear and sorrow, The never-ending toil between.

When Earth was younger mid toil and hunger, In hope we strove, and our hands were strong; Then great men led us, with words they fed us, And bade us right the earthly wrong.

Go read in story their deeds and glory,
Their names amidst the nameless dead;
Turn then from lying to us slow-dying
In that good world to which they led;

Where fast and faster our iron master,
The thing we made, for ever drives,

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Bids us grind treasure and fashion pleasure
For other hopes and other lives.

Where home is a hovel and dull we grovel,
Forgetting that the world is fair;

Where no babe we cherish, lest its very soul
perish;

Where mirth is crime, and love a snare.

Who now shall lead us, what god shall heed us
As we lie in the hell our hands have won?
For us are no rulers but fools and befoolers,
The great are fallen, the wise men gone.

I heard men saying, Leave tears and praying,
The sharp knife heedeth not the sheep;
Are we not stronger than the rich and the

wronger,

When day breaks over dreams and sleep?

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Come, shoulder to shoulder ere the world

grows older!

Help lies in nought but thee and me;

Hope is before us, and the long years that bore

us

Bore leaders more than men may be.

Let dead hearts tarry and trade and marry,
And trembling nurse their dreams of mirth,
While we the living our lives are giving
To bring the bright new world to birth.

Come, shoulder to shoulder ere earth grows

older!

The Cause spreads over land and sea;

Now the world shaketh, and fear awaketh,
And joy at last for thee and me.

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1884.

William Morris.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's, Oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save,

If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-work

Till the brain begins to swim; Work-work-work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!

It is not linen you're wearing out,

But human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a Shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death?

That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own

t

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It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep;

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread-and rags.

That shattered roof-and this naked floor-
A table-a broken chair-

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime, Work-work-work

As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd. As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work,

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright-

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling

As if to show me their sunny backs

And twit me with the Spring.

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