Society and the World

Such hath it been—shall be—beneath the sun The many still must labor for the one.

Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease! He makes a solitude, and calls it—peace!

“While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls—the world.” 5

Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday!

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, Streams like the thunderstorm against the wind.

O Rome! my country! city of the soul!

The starry Galileo, with his woes.

She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion, A ruler of the waters and their powers.

Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum Of human cities torture.

History’s purchased page to call them great.

Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children’s lips shall echo them, and say— “Here, where the sword united nations drew, Our countrymen were warring on that day!” And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 4

Millions of tongues record thee, and anew Their children’s lips shall echo them, and say— “Here, where the sword united nations drew, Our countrymen were warring on that day!” And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 4

Did ye not hear it?—No! ’twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o’er the stony street. On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Who would be free themselves must strike the blow.

War, war is still the cry, “War even to the knife!” 3

A man must serve his time to every trade Save censure—critics all are ready-made.

The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him. His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Who first invented work, and bound the free And holiday-rejoicing spirit down?