Anarchism.

'Tis not when I am here, In these homeless homes, Where sin and shame and disease And foul death comes;

'Tis not when heart and brain Would be still and forget Men and women and children Dragged down to the pit:

But when I hear them declaiming Of "liberty," "order," and "law," The husk-hearted gentleman And the mud-hearted bourgeois,

That a sombre hateful desire Burns up slow in my breast To wreck the great guilty temple, And give us rest!

BELGRAVIA BY NIGHT. "MOVE ON!"

"The foxes have holes, And the birds of the air have nests, But where shall the heads of the sons of men Be laid, be laid?"

"Where the cold corpse rests, Where the sightless moles Burrow and yet cannot make it afraid, Rout but cannot wake it again, There shall the heads of the sons of men Be laid, laid!"

JESUS.

Where is poor Jesus gone? He sits with Dives now, And not even the crumbs are flung To Lazarus below.

Where is poor Jesus gone? Is he with Magdalen? He doles her one by one Her wages of shame!

Where is poor Jesus gone? The good Samaritan, What does he there alone? He stabs the wounded man!

Where is poor Jesus gone, The lamb they sacrificed? They've made God of his carrion And labelled it "Christ!"

PARALLELS FOR THE PIOUS.

"He holds a pistol to my head, Swearing that he will shoot me dead, If he have not my purse instead, The robber!"

"He, with the lash of wealth and power, Flogs out my heart and flings the dower, The plundered pittance of his hour, The robber!"

"He shakes his serpent tongue that lies, Wins trust for poisoned sophistries And stabs me in the dark, and flies, The assassin!"

"He pits me in the dreadful fight Against my fellow. Then he quite Strips both his victims in the night, The assassin!"