Vi

My vision darkens as the night descends; And through the mystic atmosphere I feel the creeping coldness that portends A change of spirit in my dream The multitude that moved with song and cheer Have vanished, yet a living stream Flows on and follows still the flag, But silent now, with leaden feet that lag And falter in the deepening gloom,-- A weird battalion bringing up the rear. Ah, who are these on whom the vital bloom Of life has withered to the dust of doom? These little pilgrims prematurely worn And bent as if they bore the weight of years? These childish faces, pallid and forlorn, Too dull for laughter and too hard for tears? Is this the ghost of that insane crusade That led ten thousand children long ago, A flock of innocents, deceived, betrayed, Yet pressing on through want and woe To meet their fate, faithful and unafraid? Nay, for a million children now Are marching in the long pathetic line, With weary step and early wrinkled brow; And at their head appears no holy sign Of hope in heaven; For unto them is given No cross to carry, but a cross to drag. Before their strength is ripe they bear The load of labour, toiling underground In dangerous mines and breathing heavy air Of crowded shops; their tender lives are bound To service of the whirling, clattering wheels That fill the factories with dust and noise; They are not girls and boys, But little "hands" who blindly, dumbly feed With their own blood the hungry god of Greed. Robbed of their natural joys, And wounded with a scar that never heals, They stumble on with heavy-laden soul, And fall by thousands on the highway lined With little graves; or reach at last their goal Of stunted manhood and embittered age, To brood awhile with dark and troubled mind, Beside the smouldering fire of sullen rage, On life's unfruitful work and niggard wage. Are these the regiments that Freedom rears To serve her cause in coming years? Nay, every life that Avarice doth maim And beggar in the helpless days of youth, Shall surely claim A just revenge, and take it without ruth; And every soul denied the right to grow Beneath the flag, shall be its secret foe. Bow down, dear land, in penitence and shame! Remember now thine oath, so nobly sworn, To guard an equal lot For every child within thy borders born! These are thy children whom thou hast forgot: They have the bitter right to live, but not The blessed right to look for happiness. O lift thy liberating hand once more, To loose thy little ones from dark duress; The vital gladness to their hearts restore In healthful lessons and in happy play; And set them free to climb the upward way That leads to self-reliant nobleness. Speak out, my country, speak at last, As thou hast spoken in the past, And clearly, bravely say: "I will defend The coming race on whom my hopes depend: Beneath my flag and on my sacred soil No child shall bear the crushing yoke of toil."