To High-born Poets
There comes a pitiless cry from the oppressed—
A cry from the toilers of Babylon for their rest.—
O Poet, thou art holden with a vow:
The light of higher worlds is on thy brow,
And Freedom’s star is soaring in thy breast.
Go, be a dauntless voice, a bugle-cry
In darkening battle when the winds are high—
A clear sane cry wherein the God is heard
To speak to men the one redeeming word.
No peace for thee, no peace,
Till blind oppression cease;
The stones cry from the walls,
Till the gray injustice falls—
Till strong men come to build in freedom-fate
The pillars of the new Fraternal State.
Let trifling pipe be mute,
Fling by the languid lute:
Take down the trumpet and confront the Hour,
And speak to toil-worn nations from a tower—
Take down the horn wherein the thunders sleep,
Blow battles into men—call down the fire—
The daring, the long purpose, the desire;
Descend with faith into the Human Deep,
And ringing to the troops of right a cheer,
Make known the Truth of Man in holy fear;
Send forth thy spirit in a storm of song,
A tempest flinging fire upon the wrong.