Shall sever no more from human-kind.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free,
Till Justice and Love hold jubilee.

The time has come when kingly crown
And mitre for toys of the past are shown;
When the fierce and false alike shall fall,
And mercy and truth encircle all.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free,
Till Mercy and Truth hold jubilee !

The time shall come when earth shall be

A garden of joy, from sea to sea,

When the slaughterous sword is drawn no more,

And goodness exults from shore to shore.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free,
Till Goodness shall hold high jubilee!

THE BARONS BOLD

WILLIAM JOHNSON FOX

THE Chartists were not satisfied with the measure of representation accorded the people by the Reform Act of 1832 and demanded manhood suffrage. On April 6, 1848, twenty-five thousand men assembled on Kennington Common, south of the Thames, determined to carry to the House of Commons a monster petition that the Charter should immediately be granted. The magistrates were greatly alarmed and made elaborate preparations for the defence of the city. The Chartists were unarmed and dared not meet the troops, so the great demonstration came to nothing. But suffrage has since been given to every householder in town and country alike, and the people have to-day sufficient influence in the House of Commons to carry any measure for which they make a united demand.

The Barons bold on Runnymede

By union won their charter;

True men were they, prepar'd to bleed,
But not their rights to barter:
And they swore that England's laws
Were above a tyrant's word;

And they prov'd that freedom's cause
Was above a tyrant's sword:
Then honour we

The memory

Of those Barons brave united;

And like their band,

Join hand to hand:

Our wrongs shall soon be righted.

The Commons brave, in Charles's time,
By union made the Crown fall,
And show'd the world how royal crime
Should lead to royal downfall:
And they swore that rights and laws
Were above a monarch's word;
And they raised the nation's cause
Above the monarch's sword:

Then honour we

The memory

Of those Commons brave, united;

And like their band,

Join hand to hand:

Our wrongs shall soon be righted.

The People firm, from Court and Peers, By union won Reform, sirs,

And, union safe, the nation steers

Through sunshine and through storm, sirs:
And we swear that equal laws

Shall prevail o'er lordlings' words,
And can prove that freedom's cause
Is too strong for hireling swords:
Then honour we

The victory

Of the people brave, united;
Let all our bands

Join hearts and hands:

Our wrongs shall all be righted.

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

THE invention of machinery and the building of great factories made the employment of children profitable, and many a father sent his boys and girls to work before they were old enough to endure the strain. There was at first no limit set to the number of hours the children might be kept at work or to the tasks that might be required of them. The suffering of the factory operatives was finally brought to the attention of Parliament, and laws for the protection of women and children were passed. Mrs. Browning's poem did much to rouse public feeling in behalf of the little toilers.

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,

The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west —
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in the sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so?

The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago.

The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,
The old hope is hardest to be lost.
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,

For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy.

"Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary;
Our young feet," they say, "are very weak!
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary
Our grave-rest is very far to seek.

Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children;
For the outside earth is cold;

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old.

"True," say the children, "it may happen.
That we die before our time.

Little Alice died last year- her grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.

We looked into the pit prepared to take her.
Was no room for any work in the close clay!
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'

If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,

With your ear down, little Alice never cries.

Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,

For the smile has time for growing in her eyes. And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud by the kirk-chime!

It is good when it happens," say the children,
"That we die before our time."

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have.

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.

Go out, children, from the mine and from the city,
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do.
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty,
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!
But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine?