The Freeborn
God made the man and bid him multiply,
Replenish the green earth, nor break the die
Made by His hand; Man hearing understood.
He loved His work and held His labour good.
And wherefore then does this poor mortal stand,
And hold his starving children hand in hand,
Beside his mate? the tree where his fruit hung
So torn, so blighted, yet its years are young.
Him one might see with horror and amaze
To find man’s eyes should hold such famished gaze!
Has Heaven not more anguish at the sight,
His brothers pass sans pity at his plight?
That withered hand, did it not grasp a sword
To keep ungrateful Empire’s hope restored?
And if not this, at least it helped to raise
Stone upon stone within her cities’ maze.
He does but ask to toil within the span
Of that brief time allotted here to man.
He is no drone to fatten in the hive,
He asks but work to keep himself alive.
What shall he do, oh! wretched, hapless wight,
Or whither turn to face the coming night?
Unwanted, workless, half with hunger slain,
He through each child doth feel another pain.
Those eyes he meets as hopeless as his own,
Save love whose every beauty is out-thrown.
His cheerless mate who shivers by his side,
Was she not fair when she became his bride?
In their sweet wooing did those lips not smile,
Those dull eyes light, that bosom pant the while,
And is that long-forgotten joy all spent,
Has hunger stormed love’s very battlement?
Go forth replenish—fruit and multiply,
As God hath said, where does the failure lie?
This little circle of a home outcast,
Man, wife, and babes to face want’s evil blast.
The very beast beside its starving brood
Will limb from limb his brother tear for food.
But this poor wretch lifts no ungentle hand
Against the powers that hold his soul unmanned.
See how they go along the glitt’ring street,
A piteous band, with slow and dragging feet,
Mud spattered by each swift and splendid coach,
That hardly deigns to warn of its approach.
Held up at last by Law’s compelling arm,
See how the children weep in their alarm;
As well they may, for, trembling 'neath the shock,
The wretched crew are hurried to the dock.
Has that poor mother, then, in her despair
Stole for her crying babes a little share
Of those fine things the shining windows show?
Or has the man, made savage by their woe,
Leaped forth to snatch, with fingers hunger-cold,
From some white throat its circling chain of gold?
Or plucked a jewel from some pretty ear
That all his children’s crying would not hear?
What is the crime? What brings them, then, to this,
The huddled cry, the sobbing farewell kiss,
The prison cell, one month of labour hard,
For these two souls who were from labour barred?
Who did but plead to live life’s little span?
The shiv’ring woman and the famished man.
What was the crime that tore each hand apart?
The crying children from their mother’s heart.
What crime but this, else would his poor babes die,
He begged for bread, his brothers passing by,
Nor did he then demand his right to live,
But only prayed for Christ’s sweet sake to give.
Death’s friendly hand, how timid, he declined,
They would not die, since hearts he held were kind,
But he forgot the Law had no heart-beat,
When he did beg his life upon the street.
He must not steal, his blood he dare not shed,
He has no work, he may not beg his bread.
Trapped by the law, oh, Justice, answer true!
When this free man comes forth, what must he do?
