I

Lo! here accursèd caste Hath made men things that creep; The beggars totter past, The baser sultans sleep;

The limping lepers crawl, The tricking traders cheat; The lean ones cry and fall, The fat ones curse and beat;

Never hath freedom’s cry The stifling stillness cleaved; The hopeless millions die That yet have never lived.

No noble god of earth, Man can but snatch and eat; Starvation murders worth, Wealth makes the beast complete.

What horror here! Is this Thy revelation, Truth? I shake at the abyss. What hunger, rage, and ruth,

How hopeless! Heaven, we men Are not the gods we think!— Base pismires of the fen That fight and bite and sink.