To High-born Poets
There comes a pitiless cry from the oppressed—
A cry from the toilers of Babylon for their rest.—
O Poet, thou art holden with a vow:
The light of higher worlds is on thy brow,
And Freedom's star is soaring in thy breast.
Go, be a dauntless voice, a bugle-cry
In darkening battle when the winds are high—
A clear sane cry wherein the God is heard
To speak to men the one redeeming word.
No peace for thee, no peace,
Till blind oppression cease;
The stones cry from the walls,
Till the gray injustice falls—
Till strong men come to build in freedom-fate
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