mence, and the chairman called on the pianist to open with a suitable piece, which he did by playing the “Marseillaise” in first-rate style. Then a few songs were sung, mostly the familiar songs of the day, and one gentleman recited Charles Mackay's stirring poem “Eternal Justice,” which elicited vigorous applause. After which one of the Brotherhood recited the following with some warmth:—
A CALL TO THE WORKERS.
Come lads, rouse yourselves, for the night is grown darker,
The sad cry of anguish is louder than yore,
The victims of labor—of unwanted labor—
Are crying at your feet, and their numbers grow more.
'Twas said, in the sweat of his brow, that the toiler
Should eat his bread; but, alas, 'tis too true
That he who toils hardest has least of earth's bounties,
Whilst plenty rewards him who toil scorns to do.
Oh, brothers, is this what our fathers have fought for?
Is this but the outcome of thousands of years
Of thinking, and trying, and doing for their fellows
By lawgivers, scientists, thinkers and seers!
Is man born to live and to die unrewarded?
Are all his best efforts to be spent in vain?
Shall idleness always enjoy of the good things?
Is labor doomed always to toil and complain?
'Tis said that the poor we have with us at all times;
Alas for the world, that 'twas so in the past;
But, brothers, because we have long suffered evil,
Dost follow we should suffer evil to last?
Oh, poor fellow-creatures! so long thy injustice—
So long hast thou bent under tyranny's hand—
So long hast thou crouched 'neath the whip of thy master,
Thou durst not look upright, thou fearest to stand.
Oh, brothers, cast off the dead load of oppression
That Cunning has heaped upon Labor's strong form—
So cunningly heaped that the victim who bears it
Scarce knows of its presence, except when the storm
Of righteous rebellion breaks out in its fury,
And Slavery strikes in its blind frenzied might,
And throws at proud Capital, bloated, but helpless,
The force of a True Thought, the bombshell of Right.
Alas, ah my brothers, so long used to serfdom,
So ready to fawn, and to cringe, and to crawl
Before the vile monster thy toil hath created,
The Door of Nothing, the Filcher of all!
Then courage, my brothers, arise in your manhood,
Stand firmly together and dare the whole world—
A world in which thou hast no claim of possession,
The Idler's domain, from which Labor is hurled.
Rise up, and ask not your oppressors for favors,
For loans, or for mercy, or justice, or gain;
To Hell with Monopoly and its defenders:
The world is your own when you dare lay the claim.
