Comrades, what matter the watch-night tellsThat a New Year comes or goes?What to us are the crashing bellsThat clang out the Century's close?What to us is the gala dress?The whirl of the dancing feet?The glitter and blare in the laughing press,And din of the merry street?Do we not know that our brothers dieIn the cold and the dark to-night?Shelterless faces turned toward the skyWill not see the New Year's light!Wandering children, lonely, lost,Drift away on the human sea,While the price of their lives in a glass is tossedAnd drunk in a revelry!Ah, know we not in their feasting hallsWhere the loud laugh echoes again,That brick and stone in the mortared wallsAre the bones of murdered men?Slowly murdered! By day and day,The beauty and strength are reft,Till the Man is sapped and sucked away,And a Human Rind is left!A Human Rind, with old, thin hair,And old, thin voice to prayFor alms in the bitter winter air,—A knife at his heart alway.And the pure in heart are impure in fleshFor the cost of a little food:Lo, when the Gleaner of Time shall thresh,Let these be accounted good.For these are they who in bitter blameEat the bread whose salt is sin;Whose bosoms are burned with the scarlet shame,Till their hearts are seared within.The cowardly jests of a hundred yearsWill be thrown where they pass to-night,Too callous for hate, and too dry for tears,The saddest of human blight.Do we forget them, these broken ones,That our watch to-night is set?Nay, we smile in the face of the year that comesBecause we do not forget.We do not forget the tramp on the track,Thrust out in the wind-swept waste,The curses of Man upon his back,And the curse of God in his face.The stare in the eyes of the buried manFace down in the fallen mine;The despair of the child whose bare feet ranTo tread out the rich man's wine;The solemn light in the dying gazeOf the babe at the empty breast,The wax accusation, the sombre glazeOf its frozen and rigid rest;They are all in the smile that we turn to the eastTo welcome the Century's dawn;They are all in our greeting to Night's high priest,As we bid the Old Year begone.Begone and have done, and go down and be deadDeep drowned in your sea of tears!We smile as you die, for we wait the redMorn-gleam of a hundred-yearsThat shall see the end of the age-old wrong,—The reapers that have not sown,—The reapers of men with their sickles strongWho gather, but have not strown.For the earth shall be his and the fruits thereofAnd to him the corn and wine,Who labors the hills with an even loveAnd knows not "thine and mine."And the silk shall be to the hand that weaves,The pearl to him who dives,The home to the builder; and all life's sheavesTo the builder of human lives.And none go blind that another see,Or die that another live;And none insult with a charityThat is not theirs to give.For each of his plenty shall freely shareAnd take at another's hand:Equals breathing the Common AirAnd toiling the Common Land.A dream? A vision? Aye, what you will;Let it be to you as it seems:Of this Nightmare Real we have our fill;To-night is for "pleasant dreams."Dreams that shall waken the hope that sleepsAnd knock at each torpid HeartTill it beat drum taps, and the blood that creepsWith a lion's spring upstart!For who are we to be bound and drownedIn this river of human blood?Who are we to lie in a swound,Half sunk in the river mud?Are we not they who delve and blastAnd hammer and build and burn?Without us not a nail made fast!Not a wheel in the world should turn!Must we, the Giant, await the graceThat is dealt by the puny handOf him who sits in the feasting place,While we, his Blind Jest, standBetween the pillars? Nay, not so:Aye, if such thing were true,Better were Gaza again, to showWhat the giant's rage may do!But yet not this: it were wiser farTo enter the feasting hallAnd say to the Masters, "These things areNot for you alone, but all."And this shall be in the CenturyThat opes on our eyes to-night;So here's to the struggle, if it must be,And to him who fights the fight.And here's to the dauntless, jubilant throatThat loud to its Comrade sings,Till over the earth shrills the mustering note,And the World Strike's signal rings.
Comrades, what matter the watch-night tellsThat a New Year comes or goes?What to us are the crashing bellsThat clang out the Century's close?
What to us is the gala dress?The whirl of the dancing feet?The glitter and blare in the laughing press,And din of the merry street?
Do we not know that our brothers dieIn the cold and the dark to-night?Shelterless faces turned toward the skyWill not see the New Year's light!
Wandering children, lonely, lost,Drift away on the human sea,While the price of their lives in a glass is tossedAnd drunk in a revelry!
Ah, know we not in their feasting hallsWhere the loud laugh echoes again,That brick and stone in the mortared wallsAre the bones of murdered men?
Slowly murdered! By day and day,The beauty and strength are reft,Till the Man is sapped and sucked away,And a Human Rind is left!
A Human Rind, with old, thin hair,And old, thin voice to prayFor alms in the bitter winter air,—A knife at his heart alway.
And the pure in heart are impure in fleshFor the cost of a little food:Lo, when the Gleaner of Time shall thresh,Let these be accounted good.
For these are they who in bitter blameEat the bread whose salt is sin;Whose bosoms are burned with the scarlet shame,Till their hearts are seared within.
The cowardly jests of a hundred yearsWill be thrown where they pass to-night,Too callous for hate, and too dry for tears,The saddest of human blight.
Do we forget them, these broken ones,That our watch to-night is set?Nay, we smile in the face of the year that comesBecause we do not forget.
We do not forget the tramp on the track,Thrust out in the wind-swept waste,The curses of Man upon his back,And the curse of God in his face.
The stare in the eyes of the buried manFace down in the fallen mine;The despair of the child whose bare feet ranTo tread out the rich man's wine;
The solemn light in the dying gazeOf the babe at the empty breast,The wax accusation, the sombre glazeOf its frozen and rigid rest;
They are all in the smile that we turn to the eastTo welcome the Century's dawn;They are all in our greeting to Night's high priest,As we bid the Old Year begone.
Begone and have done, and go down and be deadDeep drowned in your sea of tears!We smile as you die, for we wait the redMorn-gleam of a hundred-years
That shall see the end of the age-old wrong,—The reapers that have not sown,—The reapers of men with their sickles strongWho gather, but have not strown.
For the earth shall be his and the fruits thereofAnd to him the corn and wine,Who labors the hills with an even loveAnd knows not "thine and mine."
And the silk shall be to the hand that weaves,The pearl to him who dives,The home to the builder; and all life's sheavesTo the builder of human lives.
And none go blind that another see,Or die that another live;And none insult with a charityThat is not theirs to give.
For each of his plenty shall freely shareAnd take at another's hand:Equals breathing the Common AirAnd toiling the Common Land.
A dream? A vision? Aye, what you will;Let it be to you as it seems:Of this Nightmare Real we have our fill;To-night is for "pleasant dreams."
Dreams that shall waken the hope that sleepsAnd knock at each torpid HeartTill it beat drum taps, and the blood that creepsWith a lion's spring upstart!
For who are we to be bound and drownedIn this river of human blood?Who are we to lie in a swound,Half sunk in the river mud?
Are we not they who delve and blastAnd hammer and build and burn?Without us not a nail made fast!Not a wheel in the world should turn!
Must we, the Giant, await the graceThat is dealt by the puny handOf him who sits in the feasting place,While we, his Blind Jest, stand
Between the pillars? Nay, not so:Aye, if such thing were true,Better were Gaza again, to showWhat the giant's rage may do!
But yet not this: it were wiser farTo enter the feasting hallAnd say to the Masters, "These things areNot for you alone, but all."
And this shall be in the CenturyThat opes on our eyes to-night;So here's to the struggle, if it must be,And to him who fights the fight.
And here's to the dauntless, jubilant throatThat loud to its Comrade sings,Till over the earth shrills the mustering note,And the World Strike's signal rings.
Philadelphia, January 1, 1901.