DAY, like our souls, is fiercely dark; What then? 'Tis day! We sleep no more; the cock crows -- hark! To arms! away! They come! they come! the knell is rung Of us or them; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem. What collar'd hound of lawless sway, To famine dear -- What pension'd slave of Attila, Leads in the rear? Come they from Scythian wilds afar, Our blood to spill? Wear they the livery of the Czar? They do his will. Nor tassell'd silk, nor epaulet, Nor plume, nor torse -- No splendour gilds, all sternly met, Our foot and horse. But, dark and still, we inly glow, Condensed in ire! Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know Our gloom is fire. In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Insults the land; Wrongs, vengeance, and the Cause are ours, And God's right hand! Madmen! they trample into snakes The wormy clod! Like fire, beneath their feet awakes The sword of God! Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Or find a grave. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REVELATION by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE CHAPERON by HENRY CUYLER BUNNER THE FIGHTING RACE [FEBRUARY 16, 1898] by JOSEPH IGNATIUS CONSTANTINE CLARKE A BROKEN APPOINTMENT by THOMAS HARDY AT LULWORTH COVE A CENTURY BACK by THOMAS HARDY TO WORDSWORTH by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 32 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN |