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 The pillars of the new Fraternal State.

Let trifling pipe be mute, Fling by the languid lute: Take down the trumpet and confront the Hour, And speak to toil-worn nations from a tower— Take down the horn wherein the thunders sleep, Blow battles into men—call down the fire— The daring, the long purpose, the desire; Descend with faith into the Human Deep, And ringing to the troops of right a cheer, Make known the Truth of Man in holy fear; Send forth thy spirit in a storm of song, A tempest flinging fire upon the wrong.