Wisdom, Self-Sacrifice, Daring, and Love,
Haste to the battle-field, stoop from above,
To the Day of the Lord at hand.

Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell-
Famine, and Plague, and War;
Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule,
Gather, and fall in the snare!

Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave,
Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave,
In the Day of the Lord at hand.

Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold,
While the Lord of all ages is here?

True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God,

And those who can suffer, can dare.

Each old age of gold was an iron age too,

And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do, In the Day of the Lord at hand.

THE SANDS OF DEE

(From Alton Locke, 1849)

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee;

The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see.

The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hairA tress of golden hair,

A drowned maiden's hair
Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel crawling foam,

The cruel hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea:

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee.

CLEAR AND COOL

(Song from The Water Babies, 1863)

Clear and cool, clear and cool,
By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,

By shining shingle, and foaming wear;
Under the crag where the ouzel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,
Undefiled, for the undefiled;

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul,

By the smoky town in its murky cowl;
Foul and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf and sewer and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the further I go,
Baser and baser the richer I grow;

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled?

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free;
The floodgates are open, away to the sea.
Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
As I lose myself in the infinite main,

Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again.
Undefiled, for the undefiled;
Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

William Barnes

1801-1886

EVENEN IN THE VILLAGE

(From Poems of Rural Life, 1844)

Now the light o' the west is a-turn'd to gloom,
An' the men be at hwome vrom ground;
An' the bells be a-zendèn all down the Coombe
From tower, their mwoansome sound.

An' the wind is still,

An' the house-dogs do bark,

An' the rooks be a-vled to the ellms high an' dark, An' the water do roar at mill.

An' the flickerèn light drough the window-peäne Vrom the candle's dull fleäme do shoot,

An' young Jemmy the smith is a-gone down leäne, A-playèn his shrill-vaïced flute.

An' the miller's man

Do zit down at his ease

On the seat that is under the cluster o' trees,

Wi' his pipe an' his cider can.

Robert Stephen hawker

1803-1875

THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN

(Written in 1852)

A good sword and a trusty hand!
A merry heart and true!

King James's men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do!

And have they fixed the where and when?
And shall Trelawny die?

Here's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!

Out spake their Captain brave and bold: A merry wight was he:

"If London Tower were Michael's hold, We'd set Trelawny free!

"We'll cross the Tamar, land to land: The Severn is no stay:

With

one and all,' and hand in hand; And who shall bid us nay?

"And when we come to London Wall,

A pleasant sight to view,

Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all: Here's men as good as you.

Trelawny he's in keep and hold:
Trelawny he may die:

But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold

Will know the reason why!"

Edward Fitzgerald

1809-1883

(From his translation of The Rubaiyat, 1859)

VII.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring
Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To flutter-and the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII.

Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon,

Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

IX.

Each Morn a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobád away.

X.

Well, let it take them! What have we to do
With Kaikobád the Great, or Kaikhosrú?
Let Zál and Rustum thunder as they will,
Or Hátim call to Supper-heed not you.