From
the April 1921 issue of the Socialist Standard
Born
in a world that is tainted and rank with disease;
Bred
amid squalor and sunk in monotonous toil;
Almost
inhuman, like beasts that are laden and led.
Is
our fate fixed? Shall there ne'er be cessation and ease
For
our torn, weary feet? Shall we ne'er have the strength to recoil
From
the sad death-in-life, where to live is to envy the dead?
Beauty
of nature and art, of fame and creative joy,
Nothing
of these do we know, nor care we to understand;
Love
that is truly has touched us and passed us by.
Chain-laden
slaves are we, whom our masters can crush and destroy
At
their wayward, whimsical will, with a negligent wave of the hand,
In
the way a wanton child might crush and torture a fly.
Is
there no God to help, no Zeus, or Jahveh, or Buddh?
As
well might our prayers be made to an image of wood or stone,
Hear,
then, the truth; be sure you shall find it discordant and crude.
But
harmony creeps through the discord, and a light in the crudeness
gleams—
Freedom
is our for the taking, and the power to take our own.
Out
of the wreck of a world that is falling into decay,
Rise,
if within you dwells a spark of the will to dare;
Come
in our ranks and work, and fight, and if need be die!
We
have nothing to lose but our chains. Of a surety comes a day
When
a choice must be made at last, when we break the fetters we wear
Or
retain them still, slaves proud of our slavery.
F.
J. Webb.
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