Джеральд Масси (Gerald Massey)

Yet We Are Brothers Still

There's sorrow in the poor man's tears;
    Soul-crush'd, he turns to mourn apart;
He labours on through weary years
    That bring no summer to his heart.
The rich in robes of pride adorn—
    At pleasure's banquet drink their fill—
Nor think how many poor ones mourn
    Yet we are brothers still.

Sweet, heaven! how have we earn'd their
        scorn;
    What, tho' we boast no pride of birth,
Bright spirits, from amongst us born,
    With glory crown'd, have walk'd the
        earth.
They've spurn'd us long as things of
        naught—
    Eager and swift our blood to spill—
And kindness seldom waked the thought
    That we are brothers still.

The poor man's home is desolate;
    His children learn not love's sweet
        wiles—
No happy faces smiling wait
    To glad his coming with their smile:
For wealth's wide-worshipp'd owners
        keep
    His weary bones to work their will:
Yet, tho' some laugh while others weep,
    We all are brothers still!

The peer who drinks of bounty's bowl—
    Which ever filleth to the brim—
What careth he how many a soul
    In sorrow languisheth for him?
And Royalty, whate'er its mien—
    At best a gilded bitter pill!—
'Tis but a PASSING MIST between:
    We all are brothers still.

I know the time is growing ripe
    When tyrants on their thrones shall
        quake;
Strong Godlike spirits burn to wipe
    Our wrongs away, our bonds to break.
'Twill come, oh God! be with us when
    Long-maddened vengeance pants to
        kill;
And teach us to remember, then,
    That we are brothers still!

T. MASSEY.