Written on the Occasion of the Massacre at Manchester

As I lay asleep in ItalyThere came a voice from over the Sea,And with great power it forth led meTo walk in the visions of Poesy.

I met Murder on the way--He had a mask like Castlereagh--Very smooth he looked, yet grim;Seven blood-hounds followed him:

All were fat; and well they mightBe in admirable plight,For one by one, and two by two,He tossed them human hearts to chewWhich from his wide cloak he drew.

Next came Fraud, and he had on,Like Eldon, an ermined gown;His big tears, for he wept well,Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

And the little children, whoRound his feet played to and fro,Thinking every tear a gem,Had their brains knocked out by them.

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,And the shadows of the night,Like Sidmouth, next, HypocrisyOn a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions playedIn this ghastly masquerade,All disguised, even to the eyes,Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

Last came Anarchy: he rodeOn a white horse, splashed with blood;He was pale even to the lips,Like Death in the Apocalypse.

And he wore a kingly crown;And in his grasp a sceptre shone;On his brow this mark I saw--

With a pace stately and fast,Over English land he passed,Trampling to a mire of bloodThe adoring multitude.

And a mighty troop around,With their trampling shook the ground,Waving each a bloody sword,For the service of their Lord.

And with glorious triumph, theyRode through England proud and gay,Drunk as with intoxicationOf the wine of desolation.

O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea,Passed the Pageant swift and free,Tearing up, and trampling down;Till they came to London town.

And each dweller, panic-stricken,Felt his heart with terror sickenHearing the tempestuous cryOf the triumph of Anarchy.

For with pomp to meet him came,Clothed in arms like blood and flame,The hired murderers, who did sing'Thou art God, and Law, and King.

'We have waited, weak and loneFor thy coming, Mighty One!Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,Give us glory, and blood, and gold.'

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,To the earth their pale brows bowed;Like a bad prayer not over loud,Whispering--'Thou art Law and God.'--

Then all cried with one accord,'Thou art King, and God, and Lord;Anarchy, to thee we bow,Be thy name made holy now!'

And Anarchy, the Skeleton,Bowed and grinned to every one,As well as if his educationHad cost ten millions to the nation.

For he knew the PalacesOf our Kings were rightly his;His the sceptre, crown, and globe,And the gold-inwoven robe.

So he sent his slaves beforeTo seize upon the Bank and Tower,And was proceeding with intentTo meet his pensioned Parliament

When one fled past, a maniac maid,And her name was Hope, she said:But she looked more like Despair,And she cried out in the air:

'My father Time is weak and grayWith waiting for a better day;See how idiot-like he stands,Fumbling with his palsied hands!

'He has had child after child,And the dust of death is piledOver every one but me--Misery, oh, Misery!'

Then she lay down in the street,Right before the horses' feet,Expecting, with a patient eye,Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

When between her and her foesA mist, a light, an image rose,Small at first, and weak, and frailLike the vapour of a vale:

Till as clouds grow on the blast,Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,And glare with lightnings as they fly,And speak in thunder to the sky,

It grew--a Shape arrayed in mailBrighter than the viper's scale,And upborne on wings whose grainWas as the light of sunny rain.

On its helm, seen far away,A planet, like the Morning's, lay;And those plumes its light rained throughLike a shower of crimson dew.

With step as soft as wind it passedO'er the heads of men--so fastThat they knew the presence there,And looked,--but all was empty air.

As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,As waves arise when loud winds call,Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall.

And the prostrate multitudeLooked--and ankle-deep in blood,Hope, that maiden most serene,Was walking with a quiet mien:

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,Lay dead earth upon the earth;The Horse of Death tameless as windFled, and with his hoofs did grindTo dust the murderers thronged behind.

A rushing light of clouds and splendour,A sense awakening and yet tenderWas heard and felt--and at its closeThese words of joy and fear arose

As if their own indignant EarthWhich gave the sons of England birthHad felt their blood upon her brow,And shuddering with a mother's throe

Had turned every drop of bloodBy which her face had been bedewedTo an accent unwithstood,--As if her heart had cried aloud:

'Men of England, heirs of Glory,Heroes of unwritten story,Nurslings of one mighty Mother,Hopes of her, and one another;

'Rise like Lions after slumberIn unvanquishable number,Shake your chains to earth like dewWhich in sleep had fallen on you--Ye are many--they are few.

'What is Freedom?--ye can tellThat which slavery is, too well--For its very name has grownTo an echo of your own.

''Tis to work and have such payAs just keeps life from day to dayIn your limbs, as in a cellFor the tyrants' use to dwell,

'So that ye for them are madeLoom, and plough, and sword, and spade,With or without your own will bentTo their defence and nourishment.

''Tis to see your children weakWith their mothers pine and peak,When the winter winds are bleak,--They are dying whilst I speak.

''Tis to hunger for such dietAs the rich man in his riotCasts to the fat dogs that lieSurfeiting beneath his eye;

''Tis to let the Ghost of GoldTake from Toil a thousandfoldMore than e'er its substance couldIn the tyrannies of old.

'Paper coin--that forgeryOf the title-deeds, which yeHold to something of the worthOf the inheritance of Earth.

''Tis to be a slave in soulAnd to hold no strong controlOver your own wills, but beAll that others make of ye.

'And at length when ye complainWith a murmur weak and vain'Tis to see the Tyrant's crewRide over your wives and youBlood is on the grass like dew.

'Then it is to feel revengeFiercely thirsting to exchangeBlood for blood--and wrong for wrong--Do not thus when ye are strong.

'Birds find rest, in narrow nestWhen weary of their winged quest;Beasts find fare, in woody lairWhen storm and snow are in the air.

'Asses, swine, have litter spreadAnd with fitting food are fed;All things have a home but one--

'This is Slavery--savage men,Or wild beasts within a denWould endure not as ye do--But such ills they never knew.

'What art thou Freedom? O! could slavesAnswer from their living gravesThis demand--tyrants would fleeLike a dream's dim imagery:

'Thou art not, as impostors say,A shadow soon to pass away,A superstition, and a nameEchoing from the cave of Fame.

'For the labourer thou art bread,And a comely table spreadFrom his daily labour comeIn a neat and happy home.

Thou art clothes, and fire, and foodFor the trampled multitude--No--in countries that are freeSuch starvation cannot beAs in England now we see.

'To the rich thou art a check,When his foot is on the neckOf his victim, thou dost makeThat he treads upon a snake.

Thou art Justice--ne'er for goldMay thy righteous laws be soldAs laws are in England--thouShield'st alike the high and low.

'Thou art Wisdom--Freemen neverDream that God will damn for everAll who think those things untrueOf which Priests make such ado.

'Thou art Peace--never by theeWould blood and treasure wasted beAs tyrants wasted them, when allLeagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.

'What if English toil and bloodWas poured forth, even as a flood?It availed, Oh, Liberty,To dim, but not extinguish thee.

'Thou art Love--the rich have kissedThy feet, and like him following Christ,Give their substance to the freeAnd through the rough world follow thee,

'Or turn their wealth to arms, and makeWar for thy beloved sakeOn wealth, and war, and fraud--whence theyDrew the power which is their prey.

'Science, Poetry, and ThoughtAre thy lamps; they make the lotOf the dwellers in a cotSo serene, they curse it not.

'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,All that can adorn and blessArt thou--let deeds, not words, expressThine exceeding loveliness.

'Let a great Assembly beOf the fearless and the freeOn some spot of English groundWhere the plains stretch wide around.

'Let the blue sky overhead,The green earth on which ye tread,All that must eternal beWitness the solemnity.

'From the corners uttermostOf the bounds of English coast;From every hut, village, and townWhere those who live and suffer moanFor others' misery or their own,

'From the workhouse and the prisonWhere pale as corpses newly risen,Women, children, young and old 277Groan for pain, and weep for cold--

'From the haunts of daily lifeWhere is waged the daily strifeWith common wants and common caresWhich sows the human heart with tares--

'Lastly from the palacesWhere the murmur of distressEchoes, like the distant soundOf a wind alive around

'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,Where some few feel such compassionFor those who groan, and toil, and wailAs must make their brethren pale--

'Ye who suffer woes untold,Or to feel, or to beholdYour lost country bought and soldWith a price of blood and gold--

'Let a vast assembly be,And with great solemnityDeclare with measured words that yeAre, as God has made ye, free--

'Be your strong and simple wordsKeen to wound as sharpened swords,And wide as targes let them be,With their shade to cover ye.

'Let the tyrants pour aroundWith a quick and startling sound,Like the loosening of a sea,Troops of armed emblazonry.

'Let the charged artillery driveTill the dead air seems aliveWith the clash of clanging wheels,And the tramp of horses' heels.

'Let the fixed bayonetGleam with sharp desire to wetIts bright point in English bloodLooking keen as one for food.

Let the horsemen's scimitarsWheel and flash, like sphereless starsThirsting to eclipse their burningIn a sea of death and mourning.

'Stand ye calm and resolute,Like a forest close and mute,With folded arms and looks which areWeapons of unvanquished war,

'And let Panic, who outspeedsThe career of armed steedsPass, a disregarded shadeThrough your phalanx undismayed.

'Let the laws of your own land,Good or ill, between ye standHand to hand, and foot to foot,Arbiters of the dispute,

'The old laws of England--theyWhose reverend heads with age are gray,Children of a wiser day;And whose solemn voice must beThine own echo--Liberty!

'On those who first should violateSuch sacred heralds in their stateRest the blood that must ensue,And it will not rest on you.

'And if then the tyrants dareLet them ride among you there,Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew,--What they like, that let them do.

'With folded arms and steady eyes,And little fear, and less surprise,Look upon them as they slayTill their rage has died away.

Then they will return with shameTo the place from which they came,And the blood thus shed will speakIn hot blushes on their cheek.

'Every woman in the landWill point at them as they stand--They will hardly dare to greetTheir acquaintance in the street.

'And the bold, true warriorsWho have hugged Danger in warsWill turn to those who would be free,Ashamed of such base company.

'And that slaughter to the NationShall steam up like inspiration,Eloquent, oracular;A volcano heard afar.

'And these words shall then becomeLike Oppression's thundered doomRinging through each heart and brain,Heard again--again--again--

'Rise like Lions after slumberIn unvanquishable number--Shake your chains to earth like dewWhich in sleep had fallen on you--Ye are many--they are few.'

'Horses, oxen, have a home,When from daily toil they come;Household dogs, when the wind roars,Find a home within warm doors.')

'From the cities where from caves,Like the dead from putrid graves,Troops of starvelings gliding come,Living Tenants of a tomb.'