Address of Samuel Fielden.
And tho' ye caught your noble prey within your hangman's sordid thrall;
And tho' your captive was lead forth beneath your city's rampart wall;
And tho' the grass lies o’er her green where at the morning's early red
The peasant girl brings funeral wreaths—I tell you still—she is not dead!
And tho' from off the lofty brow ye cut the ringlets flowing long,
And tho' ye've mated her amid the thieves' and murderers' hideous throng,
And tho' ye gave her felon fare—bade felon garb her livery be,
And tho' ye set the oakum task—I tell you all—she still is free!
And tho' compelled to banishment, ye hunt her down thro' endless lands;
And tho' she seeks a foreign hearth, and silent 'mid its ashes stands;
And tho' she bathes her wounded feet where foreign streams seek foreign seas;
Yet—yet—she never more will hang her harp on Babel's willow trees!
Ah, no! she strikes it very strong, and bids their loud defiance swell,
And as she marked your scaffold erst, she mocks your banishment as well.
She sings a song that starts you up astounded from your slumbrous seats,
Until your heart—your craven heart—your traitor heart—with terror beats!
No song of plaint, no song of sighs for those who perished unsubdued.
Nor yet a song of irony at wrongs fantastic interlude—
The beggar's opera that ye try to drag out thro' its lingering scenes.
Tho' moth-eaten the purple be that decks your tinsel kings and queens.
Oh, no! the song those waters hear is not of sorrow, nor dismay—
'Tis triumph song—victorious song—the paeans of the future's day—
The future—distant now no more—her prophet voice is sounding free.
As well as once your Godhead spake: I was, I am, and I will be!
Will be—and lead the nation on the last of all your hosts to meet,
And on your necks, your heads, your crowns, I'll plant my strong, resistless feet!
Avenger, Liberator, Judge—red battles on my pathway hurled,
I stretch forth my almighty arm, till it revivifies the world.
You see me only in your cells; ye see me only in the grave;
Ye see me only wandering lone, beside the exile's sullen wave—
Ye fools! Do I not live where ye have tried to pierce in vain?
Rests not a nook for me to dwell in every heart and every brain?
In every brow that boldly thinks, erect with manhood's honest pride—
Does not each bosom shelter me that beats with honor's generous tide?
Not every workshop, brooding woe? not every hut that harbors grief?
Ha! Am I not the Breath of Life, that pants and struggles for relief?
'Tis therefore I will be—and lead the people yet your hosts to meet,
And on your necks, your heads, your crowns, will plant my strong, resistless feet!
It is no boast—it is no threat—thus history's iron law decrees—
The day grows hot, oh, Babylon! 'Tis cool beneath thy willow trees!
That is a piece of poetry written by Freiligrath, called "Revolution." Freiligrath is a German writer, and every intelligent German in the civilized world has that piece of poetry upon his book-shelves.
Revolution—it is a crime in what is sometimes called the foremost civilized country in the world, to be a Revolutionist, and yet all those who can read the works of Freiligrath have read that poem with rapture. It makes a
