WOULD I could to freedom awaken a song
Half worthy the theme, then, a song would be sung
Would be echoed on high by the seraphic throng,
And re-echoed on earth till with rapture earth rung.
I would tell of the glory she gives to the soul—
I would tell of the manifold gifts and the grace
She confers upon those who durst spurn a control
That our honour would stain and our manhood deface.
I would tell of the bearing she gives—I would tell
Of the truth in the forehead expansive reveal’d;
Of the tones which ring out like the tones of a bell,
Of the smiles in whose dimples no fraud is conceal’d.
Of the manifold griefs she’s endured since the morn
Man emerged into being, I’d tell—of the pain—
Ay, the deaths out of which she has risen to scorn
The demons who labour her limbs to enchain.
As from its own ashes the mythic bird sprang,
So oft from the dust has she sprung, and will spring,
Ere she suffers or ever can suffer the pang
That would yield her dark foemen a triumph to sing.
Not dead is she found when her foes deem her dead,
But, like the blest spirit she thrills and adorns,
She never can die, never sleep on death’s bed,
Whilst a star in the dome of the universe burns.
Of the worth of her children I’d tell, and the weird
And wild music that’s felt in the sound of each name
Of the heroes who bow to her mandates revered;
Of the souls who have battled to shield her from shame.
On the pinions of rapture a legion would come
Of the shades of the brave, yea, and hark with delight,
Whilst I sang of a high-hearted Gracchus of Rome,
An Erin’s loved Emmet, an Albion’s Bright.
I would chant of the glory that vested the Queen,
Even Bonduca’s self—and Caractacus too—
The sheen of whose souls o’er their fall threw a sheen,
That into the shade their foes victories threw.
The name of the Maid of Orleans should be heard,
To the shame and the glory of down-trodden Gaul,—
The God-inspired Seeress whose will was a sword,
Which severed the spell had long held her in thrall.
To the Greek Leonidas the lion-nerved king—
To Rome’s Cincinnatus and he, his last peer,
Garibaldi himself then a pæan would ring,
The sternest oppressor would tremble to hear.
Nor unsung would’st thou be noble Washington, thou,
Thou, whose name should be written in letters of gold;
Nay, priest-ridden Spain would in ecstasy glow,
Whilst the deeds of the Maiden of Seville were told.
All this would I do could I sate my desire,
But alas, I must leave what I feel is a want,
To a mightier bard and a richer toned lyre;
But where’s now the bard Freedom’s anthem to chant?
Where, where is a Milton, a Shelley, and where
Is a Burns or a Byron? where? Woe is me!
We are mealy-mouthed men without courage to dare
What becomes Freedom’s children to do and to be.
Other works by Joseph Skipsey...
