Ernest Charles Jones (Эрнест Чарльз Джонс)

A Song for May

Spring is come, and shades depart
Lighter beats each human heart;
Ghost-like snow—is fleeting slow,
And the green spring-grasses grow.

Streams, that long have crept like slaves,
Dash along their gallant waves:
Man, that wanderest by the brink,
Pause upon thy way, and—think!

Every bud is filled to bursting
    With its future fruit and flower:
Hearts of men! are ye not thirsting
    For the fruit of Freedom's hour?

See! the fields are turning fairer,
    And the skies are more divine:
Oh! what glorious growth shall ripen!
    Oh! what glorious light will shine!

And shall man in slavish darkness,
    Moulder downward to the Sod?
God made earth an earth for freemen:
    Thou! be worthy of thy God!

All that beauty of creation,
    On the hills, and winds, and waves,
All its endless animation
    Was not—was not meant for slaves!

See the sower freely striding
    With the seed-sheets round him wound,
And the gold grain-corn abiding
    In the treasure-clasping ground.

See the furrows open kindly
    Where the earth with generous sap,
Like a mother, nurseth blindly
    Fairy-growth on dark-brown lap.

Think! of all the treasure teeming
    In that earth, and sea, and air,—
Labour's toil to Mammon's scheming—
    What shall fall to Labour's share!

Think upon the hour of harvest—
    Little mouths shall ask for bread—
But the wain goes past thy cottage,
    To the farmer's rich home-stead.

Dies away the children's laughter—
    Hungry hearts are tame and still—
And the autumn's on the forest,
    And the winter's on the hill.

Then, amid the desolation,
    Stand—a helpless human thing;
Cry: 'We are a glorious nation!
    Love the church! and serve the king!'

Then toil on with brow of anguish,
    From the cradle to thy grave:
Oh, if that be God's intention,
    Man is but a wretched slave!

But they tell us of a guerdon,
    Won by Labour's thrifty toil,
And how he who folds the furrow,
    Should be owner of the soil.

How the means for man's redemption,
    In his own possession rest,
How the country can be happy,
    And the people can be blest.

And how some have chosen wisely,
    And how some have acted right:
How the taverns grow more empty,
    And the cottages more bright.

And how these are proud as monarchs,
    Living gaily on their own,
With their freehold for their empire,
    And their fireside for their throne.

Where the corn-lands' pleasant tillage,
    Over-waves the graceful hill,
And a wood-embosomed village,
    Rise at O'CONNORVILLE.

And they beckon to their brothers,
    Who are still in slavery's wake,
To be striving and be stirring,
    For their own—their children's sake.

People, rise! and arm thee well!
Hope, that care cannot dispel,
Self-reliance, firmly wrought,
Wisdom by Experience taught,
Thrift and order, courage true,
These are arms to lead us through!
Wield them now—as you would thrive!—
Onward! 'tis the time to strive!

1. The Silent Cell
2. Hymn for Lammas Day
3. A Fine Young Foreign Gentleman
4. Earth's Burdens
5. Too Soon

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