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Poem by Gerald Massey
The Men of Forty-Eight
THEY rose in Freedom's rare sunrise, Like Giants roused from wine; And in their hearts and in their eyes, The God leapt up divine! Their souls flasht out like naked swords, Unsheathed for fiery fate! Strength went like battle with their words— The Men of Forty-eight, Hurrah! For the Men of Forty-eight. Dark days have fall'n, yet in the strife They bate no hope sublime, And bravely works the exultant life, Their hearts pulse thro' the time: As grass is greenest trodden down, So suffering makes men great, And this dark tide shall richly crown The work of Forty-eight, Hurrah! For the Men of Forty-eight. Some in a bloody burial sleep, Like Greeks to glory gone, But in their steps avengers leap With their proof-armour on: And hearts beat high with dauntless trust To triumph soon or late, Tho' they be mould'ring down in dust — Brave Men of Forty-eight! Hurrah! For the Men of Forty-eight! O when the world wakes up to worst The Tyrants once again, And Freedom's summons-shout shall burst, Rare music! on the brain,— With heart to heart, in many a land, Ye'll find them all elate— Brave remnant of that Spartan-band, The Men of Forty-eight. Hurrah! For the Men of Forty-eight.
Gerald Massey's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org