Songs of Love and Rebellion

Front matter

COPYRIGHT, 1915

COVINGTON HALL

JOHN J. WEIHING PRINTING CO.

Rebellion

REBELLION

Rebellion comes, hope's sacred fire, To Freedom's son from Freedom's sire; A soul-breath swordsmen cannot kill, Nor gold, nor cross, nor rifle still.

With Lucifer it marched on God And broke Jehovah's scourging rod: It stood with Christ in Pilate's hall And doomed the Caesars to their fall.

It sent Gautama on his quest, Him Asia calls her light and blest; With Quetzalcoatl, long ago, It stirred the heart of Mexico.

With Moses it for freedom sought; With wild Mahomet, too, it fought; It gave Zoroaster all his fame, Confucius his deathless name.

With Cromwell's legions, grim and cold. It trampled on the statutes old; With Voltaire, Marat and St. Just, It raged 'till Europe rose from dust.

It called Abe Lincoln from the plains, Set Marx and Ferrer breaking chains, And hovered o'er the Commune when It fired the souls of workingmen.

'Tis that which stirs the race today— 'Tis that which makes truth's lightnings play— 'Tis Revolution in its birth— The soul of Freedom—the light of earth—

REBELLION!

Why I am a revolutionist

WHY I AM A REVOLUTIONIST.

I have heard the child-slaves weeping when the world was fair and bright, Heard them begging, begging for the playgrounds and the light! I have seen the statesmen holding all save truth a vested right, And the priest and preacher fighting in the legions of the night.

I have seen the queens of fashion in their jeweled pride arrayed, Ruby-crowned and splendid—rubies of a baby's life-blood made, Richer than the gems of nature, of a stranger, deeper shade, On their snow-white bosoms quivered as the dames of fashion prayed.

Then I went into the dungeons where the brute men cringe and crawl— Men to every high thought blinded—men no longer men at all— And my eyes looked upward to the men whom we "successful" call, And the sign was in their foreheads and their thrones about to fall.

And I've seen my father lying on his death-bed like a beast, In his poverty forsaken, he a Southron soldier-priest; Seen his broken body tremble as the pulse of living ceast, And his soul go outward, moaning, as the red sun lit the East.

And I've seen my little mother on her death bed weep and moan, For the babies she was leaving in the great world all alone; Heard her loving spirit crying, seeking something to atone— How she feared the god of hunger!—how she feared the heart of stone!

And you talk to me "religion," and "rebellion" you "deplore," You whose souls have never anguished at the death watch of the poor! You who rape the starving millions and yet grasp for more and more, Raimenting in rags our mother, raimenting in silks your whore?

In these wild and frightful moments, I have felt my reason reel, Felt an impulse like the tiger's over all my being steal; Fe!t it would not be a murder if my hand the blow could deal, That would brand upon your temple the death angel's mark and seal.

Then I heard a voice crying, "Workers of the world, unite!" And the vanguard of the Marxians broke upon my hopeless sight, Serried ranks of Rebels marching 'neath the crimson flag of right, To call our class to action, to arouse it to its might.

Thoughts of murder vanished from me and demon ceased to reign, For the scheme of life unraveled and the universe seemed sane; And I took my place beside them, here upon Truth's battle plain, And I stand beside them fighting till the world we lose or gain.

Battle hymn of toil

BATTLE HYMN OF TOIL

Onward! Onward! Onward! 'Till the toilers all are free! Forward! Forward! Forward! Death! Death! Death or Liberty!

Lo! the little children hung'ring 'midst the plenty of the earth, Lo! the mothers agonizing that they ever gave them birth; Lo! the slaughter of the lovely and the murder of the just, And the blinding of the soul-sight by the lords of gold and lust!

Onward! Onward! Onward! 'Till the toilers all are free! Forward! Forward! Forward! Death! Death! Death or Liberty!

We, the miracle performers, working wonders with our toil, We are strangers in our countries, we are aliens on their soil; We are beggars, tramps and vagrants, and we live and die a slave, Tho' the treasuries are bursting with the wealth our labor gave!

Onward! Onward! Onward! 'Till the toilers all are free! Forward! Forward! Forward! Death! Death! Death or Liberty!

Let us rise and march, my comrades, to the song that Freedom sings, Let us hurl a MAN'S defiance in the ashen face of kings; Let us rise as one and gather 'round our war flags, flaming red, 'Till the whole world shakes and trembles to the thunder of our tread!

Onward! Onward! Onward! 'Till the toilers all are free! Forward! Forward! Forward! Death! Death! Death or Liberty!

The conscience of the workers

THE CONSCIENCE OF THE WORKERS

The conscience of the workers, it is waking day by day, It is rising in a flood-tide that will sweep the Beast away; It is shaking down the fortress and the prison dark and strong, And the courtrooms of injustice, and the thrones of vested wrong!

The conscience of the workers, it has wakened sword in hand, And the Marseillaise is ringing in a chorus deep and grand; Over hill and dale and valley, in a fearless, glad refrain, Onward sweeps the hymn of freedom 'round a rebel world again.

The conscience of the workers—O my masters! nevermore Will we cringe and plead for mercy at your gold-stained temple door! We shall come in all the glory of the human soul awake, We shall reach our strong hands forward and our birthright we shall TAKE!

The conscience of the workers—O my masters, heed you this: We, the workers, were awakened from the dead by Freedom's kiss; We were 'wakened from our slumber and shall never sleep again, 'Till your kingdom lies in ashes and the stars of freedom reign.

The strike

THE STRIKE

Say what ye will, ye owls of night, The strike upholds the cause of right; The strike compels the king to pause, The statesmen to remould the laws.

Say what ye will, yet, without ruth, The strike drives home the bitter truth; The strike tears off the mask of things, To mass and class the issue brings.

Say what ye will, the strike is good: It clears things long misunderstood: It jolts the social mind awake: It forces men a stand to take.

Say what ye will, all else above, The strike is war for bread and love; For raiment, shelter, freedom, all The human race can justice call.

The church

THE CHURCH

The church gets up at midnight when the race in sleep is thralled, And ere the slumb'rers waken, it the way of life has walled; Illuming facts are taken from accusing hist'ry's page, And love's torch-bearers murdered by the priesthoods in their rage.

The church fights never fairly, never on the open plain, But tigerlike and stealthily, with dagger, dirk and chain; Up through the gloom of ignorance, unseen, unheard, felt-shod, It creeps upon its victim, and strikes in the name of God.

The church will swear allegiance unto any cause that lives, Teach anything, preach anything, serve any cause that gives; Will, for a price, robe right in sackcloth, wrong in silk array, Will crown a Constantine and cheer a Calvin on his way.

The church spreads like a upas over heart and soul and mind, Grows powerful and fattens as the race grows stooped and blind; Forever and forever it is siding with the kings, Is at the throat of Labor and is breaking Freedom's wings.

The church still strives to rule us now as in the yesteryear, To keep the race on knee before the wizened god of fear; The priest still serves the master, and the master serves the priest, And truth is ever fighting with the ever-hungry beast.

In God we trust

IN GOD WE TRUST

In God we trust—the God of Gold, The fiend Jehovah, hard and cold; The merciless, supreme Unjust— The God of Slaves—in Him we trust.

In God we trust—the God of Greed, The Sower of the Poisoned Seed; The Keeper of the House of Lust— Love's murderer—in Him we trust.

In God we trust—the God of Blood, Of Sword and Cross and Fire and Flood; Whose name is Death—whose Heart is dust— Life's crucifier—in Him we trust.

Robert Emmet

ROBERT EMMET

He gave thee life, he gave thee all, And nobly in thy cause did fall; For thee he lived, for thee he died, For thee his heart was crucified, Ireland, O Ireland!

For thee! For thee! Not only so, For all the world he braved the blow; In freedom's cause, for truth and right, He faced the legions of the night, Ireland, O Ireland!

He was no traitor to his God, No traitor to his native sod; Upon his soul there is no stain, And death like his is not in vain, Ireland, O Ireland!

He is not dead—death is a dream— There is no death for souls supreme! His burning words will ring sublime Through every age and every clime, Ireland, O Ireland!

They could not veil his life in gloom, They could not shroud him in the tomb; His very foes upon him gaze And bow in homage and in praise, Ireland, O Ireland!

Up to the love from whence it came His freeborn soul shot like a flame— A glowing sun, a blazing light, A north star to the sons of right, Ireland, O Ireland!

He lives! He reigns! He's with us yet! His spirit's star has never set! Wherever freedom's flag's unfurled The soul of Emmet thrills the world, Ireland, O Ireland!

Mary, the mother of Christ

MARY, THE MOTHER OF CHRIST

On Golgotha's barren mountain-top two thousand years ago, Knelt the mother of a convict keeping watch upon his wo; Guarding, with that other Mary, in the brute mob all alone, Fearlessly beside the dying, at the great Blasphemer's throne.

Brokenheartedly she murmured o'er and o'er the words of love, Reaching thru the tragic darkness to the stricken form above; Seeking with the mother-magic to give comfort to his pain, Weeping when he cried for mercy to Authority in vain.

In the midst of all the legions, of the law in all its might, Of the murdrous priesthood jeering, as they've ever jeered the right, Knelt the mother of the convict, of the outcast hanging there, Unaffrighted by the clamor, in her beautiful despair.

Far across the weary centuries I seem to see her still, She the loving and the gentle, on that blackened, blood-wet hill; Watching, with that other Mary, in the brute mob all alone, Fearlessly beside the dying, at the great Blasphemer's throne.

Lucifer, the Morning Star

LUCIFER, THE MORNING STAR

He was the first to face the wrath of priesthoods and of kings; He was the first to make his mind the judgment-place of things; He was the first to question, first to feel the steel of might— Lucifer, the Morning Star, the splendid and the bright!

Around his shining spirit, lo! the priests of earth have thrown A shadow and a terror that belongs to kings alone— A demon demons made him, crowned him prince of Utmost Night— Lucifer, the Morning Star, the splendid and the bright!

Through ages upon ages, they have cursed him day on day, But fearless and unconquered he has held them all at bay; Forever and forever he has faced them in the fight— Lucifer, the Morning Star, the splendid and the bright!

Hail to the first of rebels! To the chieftain, strong and brave, Who sounded first the bugle-call of freedom to the slave! Who never yet has faltered through time's long and dreary flight— Lucifer, the Morning Star, the splendid and the bright!

Might is right

MIGHT IS RIGHT

Might was right when Christ was hanged Beside the Jordan's foam; Might was right when Gracchus bled, Upon the stones of Rome; And might was right when Danton fell, When Emmet passed away— Tis the logic of the ancient world, And the gospel of today."

Might was right when Spartacus Went down in seas of blood, And when the Commune perished In the self-same crimson flood; And might was right at Cripple Creek, At Homestead, Grabow—yea! Tis the logic of the ancient world, And the gospel of today."

Might was right when Parsons died, When Ferrer followed him, When Cole's young life was beaten out In Spokane's dungeons grim; And might was right when Pettibone Went stagg'ring down death's way— Tis the logic of the ancient world, And the gospel of today."

Might is right when Morgan builds A hell 'round every hearth; Might is right when Kirby starves His peons off the earth; And might was right when Deitz became Wolfe Weyerhauser's prey — Tis the logic of the ancient world, And the gospel of today."

Might is right when children die By thousands in the mills, When jeweled hands reach down and take The gold their blood distills; And might is right when maidens give Their love-dreams up for pay— Tis the logic of the ancient world, And the gospel of today."

Might was, it is, it e'er will be, The one and only right; And so, O hosts of toil, awaken! O workingmen, unite! Unite! Unite! For might is right— 'Tis freedom's only way— Tis the logic of the ancient world, And the gospel of today."

The madman's boast

THE MADMAN'S BOAST

What know you of madness, you whose minds have never gone astray? You whose souls have never wandered from the path of common clay? You who know no other kingdom save this sorrow-stricken earth, Where you wander in the barrens 'neath the curse of mortal birth!

Lo! how dare you call me crazy? You who live down in the plain, Far beneath the dazzling empire of the man you call insane! You are the same forever, just a sentient, moving clod, While to-day I am a mortal and to-morrow I am God!

I who walk this floor of diamonds, with my head among the stars, While you dream your keepers hold me chained behind your prison bars! I who hear immortal music, soft, strange raphsodies divine, Played for me by master demons when the moons of madness shine!

I who range the clouds of evening when the western sun sinks low, Drunken with undying splendor and afire with the glow! I who dwell with Love and Laughter, who the face of Joy behold, And who never yet have worshiped at the cloven feet of Gold!

You! 'tis you who are the madman! You whose eyes are on the ground, Kneeling with Ahriman's angels, with the gyves of custom bound! You who never knew the pleasure and who never felt the pain Of the souls who roam the empire of the man you call insane!

Us, the hoboes

US, THE HOBOES

We shall laugh to scorn your power that now holds the world in awe, We shall trample on your customs and shall spit upon your law; We shall come up from life's desert to your burdened banquet hall, We shall turn your wine to wormwood, your honey into gall.

We shall go where wail the children, where, from your race-killing mills, Flows a bloody stream of profit to your cursed, insatiate tills; We shall tear from your drivers, in our shamed and angered pride, With the fury and the fierceness of a fatherhood denied.

We shall set our sisters on you, those you trapt into your hells Where the mother instinct's stifled and no earthly beauty dwells; We shall call them from the living-death, the death in life you gave, To sing our class' triumph o'er your cruel system's grave.

We shall strip them of their epaulets, the panderers who fight Your wars against the workers for a bone on which to bite; We shall batter down your prisons, we shall see your chain-gangs free, We shall drive you from the mountainside, the valley, plain and sea.

We shall hunt around the fences where your ox-men sweat and gape Till they stampede down your stockades in their panic to escape; We shall steal up thru the darkness, we shall prowl the wood and town, Till they waken to their power and arise and ride you down.

We shall send the message to them, on a whisper down the night, We shall cheer as warrior women drive the ox-men to the fight; We shall use your guile against you, all the cunning you have taught, All the wisdom of the serpent to attain the ending sought.

We shall come as comes the cyclone,—in the stillness we shall form— From the calm your terror fashioned we shall hurl on you the storm; We shall strike when least expected, when you deem toil's rout complete, And crush you and your hessians 'neath our brogan-shodded feet.

We shall laugh to scorn your power that now holds the world in awe, We shall trample on your customs, we shall spit upon your law, We shall outrage all your temples, we shall blaspheme all your gods,— We shall turn the old world over as the plowman turns the clods!

Jesus Christ

JESUS CHRIST

Then they seized you and they crowned you with a burning crown of thorns; Now, the masters bow before you and a servile priesthood fawns; In a far and distant Eden, in a hidden, gold-kept shrine, They have buried all the treasure of the truth that was divine.

On the cross they built for labor, lo! they hanged you in the night, And the jeering preachers cheered it as a deed for good and right; But the workers gathered 'round you, and the Revolution spread, And the priesthood and the masters for a moment were afraid.

Down the high-road of the ages marched your resurrected soul, And the pagan powers trembled as their strong hands lost control; But the priesthood and the masters they were ever full of guile, And they re-enchained the workers with a promise and a smile.

Yea! they built you divers temples, and they took you from the sod And set you up in heaven as an Emperor and God; And they read a mystic meaning in your pure and simple creed To the foolish workers dying on the battlefields of greed.

'Round your white and splendid altars they have reared a ghastly pile, Copied from the Roman Masters, imitations weak and vile, Where they hide you from the workers, where they rave at all who come Seeking for the priceless truths you uttered ere your lips grew dumb.

Superstition-blighted knowledge—prison upon prison piled— And the brazen creed of profit—thus have master hands defiled All the mighty work you fashioned in the ages long ago, When you led the hosts of labor and when labor loved you so.

My mammy's son

MY MAMMY'S SON

I don't wan to see him crushed, my dear old mammy's son, The boy I played with long ago, whose "chinas" oft I won; Who stood with me in many fights in the old plantation days; Whose heart was true and loyal in a thousand different ways.

I don't want to see him crushed, his children made the prey Of every wolf that howls along the Anglo-Saxon way; Of every low-browed, heartless thing that bays him with the scream: "I am the Anglo-Saxon and I am the white supreme!"

I don't want to see him crushed, his black face scarred with grief, His sorrows made unending, or his pleasures few and brief; For often I remember how he stood there at my side, When the old home went to pieces, with a friendship true and tried.

I don't want to see him crushed, his life-work made in vain, His misery the corner-stone of demagogic gain; His degradation the excuse for Pharisees on high, A refuge for the scoundrel and a cloak for every lie.

I don't want to see him crushed, nor made a nameless thing, A chattel in the service of the menials of the king; A slave unto the servants who attend the lords of gold, Who are rottening the structure that the fathers built of old.

I don't want to see him crushed, my dear old mammy's son, The boy I played with long ago, whose "chinas" oft I won; And for his sake an Aryan pleads with Aryans to-day To rise in Aryan manhood and drive the wolves away.

The dreamer

THE DREAMER

He walks the Vale of Silence, yet in Silence, lo, he hears The harmonies of Nature and the music of the Spheres; Amid the passing Shows and Shadows, he, alone, is free, For he, alone, is close enough the Hidden Heart to see.

His path may stretch down valleys where eternal Sorrow reigns; The angels, Sin and Sadness, leave upon his soul their stains; And o'er his spirit's altars Fate may draw the veil of night, But never is he blinded to the pure, unblemished light.

Alone, alone and desolate, far fares his soul away, Yet on the Pinnacles of Gloom he finds the Star of Day; And in the wildest wilderness, beside Life's bitter springs, He hears Hope's silver laughter and the murmur of her wings.

For him there is no Eden, yet the world owes all to him, For he beheld the Vision when the World-eye still was dim; A beggar in the court of Love, an outcast from the Shrine, He taught the world Love's lesson, and he made it all divine.

Out in the lonely gardens, of the long and lonely years, He wrung the fruit of Knowledge from the upas tree of Tears; His was the mind that 'wakened all the golden dreams of youth, And his eye that first beheld the signals of the Truth.

And they who followed after, where his bleeding footsteps trod, And walked upon the roses he had strewn upon the sod, They reaped the fruit he planted and the grain that he had sown, And Lethe softly ripples o'er a grave forgot, unknown.

The World Will

THE WORLD WILL

Hear me, ye who sit in purple splendor, 'round old Mammon's throne! Hear me, all ye sons of Moloch, ye who make the race to mourn! Hear me, too, ye pand'ring statesmen guarding where their black flag waves! Hear me, all ye hireling teachers, all ye priesthoods who have sold Truth, the Holy Spirit, and have turned Love's glowing words to gold! Hear me, all ye House of Mammon, all who bend at Moloch's shrine, We, the workers, soon are coming in a fury all divine!

Heart-aflame and by love driven, nation-parted now no more We are gath'ring for the battle that the seers foretold of yore; From all peoples we are coming, far and wide the world around, And the fight shall not be ended 'till the last slave's freedom's found; There shall be, when we have finished, for all children home and hearth, And the songs of happy mothers shall be heard throughout the earth; There shall be no fallen women, there shall be no broken men, There shall be no homeless outcasts on the broad earth's bosom then.

All the steel that now surrounds you, naked-handed we shall break; All the laws that now protect you, these as nothing we shall make; All the words of your false prophets unto you shall be as dust, And the spider seal the temples where your stricken idols rust; All your gilded, glitt'ring savagery our hands shall sweep away, And the maidens ye have ruined shall demand of you their pay; All your monstrous art shall perish from the earth's insulted plain, All your reeking hovel cities shall ge back to hell again!

There shall be no king above us, there shall be no slave below, There, in Labor's grand Republic, only freedom we shall know! We are gathering, we are coming, far and wide the world around, Truth the northstar of our legions, all the earth our battle ground! Arming, coming in love-anger, marching forward by its light, Coming, coming hungry-hearted for the long expected fight! Coming, coming from our thralldom, coming victors over all!— We have heard the World Will speaking, we have heard the Race-Soul call!

This:

THIS:

This I swear to you, my comrades, By the holy saints above, By the holy God in heaven, You shall suffer if you love.

Yet again, I swear, my comrades. You shall never taste of bliss, You shall never know life's sweetness If the cup of love you miss.

And, once more, I swear, my comrades, Love is but a zephyr breath; It is but a fragrance floating On the wings of death.

And, at last, I swear, my comrades, That you cannot pass love by; That you live alone by loving, And that love can never die.

The word

THE WORD

This is the wondrous word she spoke, Learned, I think, from the fairy-folk: "In cottage room and palace hall, Love," she said, "is the all in all.

"Without it there is nothing worth In heaven, dear, or in the earth; Unknowing it, all life would be But universal misery.

"It is the force, the only one, That guides the stars, the moon and sun; The comets, too, on it depend, And 'tis the dying meteor's friend.

"Where'er love rests its shining wings A beauty from the old earth springs; A fountain bursts, a flower glows, A fragrance o'er the desert flows.

"Beneath its spell the palace is Endurable a while, I wis; The water in the cottage pail Is sweeter than the rarest ale.

"There is no wine, however old, Can warm the loveless of their cold; There is no power, here nor there, Can make unloving beings fair.

"In cottage room and palace hall, Love," she said, "is the all in all." This is the wondrous word she told, That she, the heart-wise, did unfold.

I only know

I ONLY KNOW

The mysteries and miracles I've never understood— I only know that Love is great and wise and strong and good; I only know that I am naught beside the seraphim, And that all the host of heaven by the side of Love is dim.

I only know the grandest star that gleams on mortal sight In Love's eternal vision is a fleck of dying light; That all the glorious wonder our midnight sky unfolds Is nothing to the grandeur that the eye of Love beholds.

I only know our universe, all limitless and grand, Is as a sea of atoms in the hollow of Love's hand; That all our vanished eons that have rolled through time away, And all our coming ages, are to Love a single day.

I only know that dreamings the to us seem all sublime, The soul of mortal music, and the heart of earthly rhyme, Our farthest sweep of wisdom, all our thought's divinest light, To Love is as a lantern in the fog-clouds of the night.

I only know my mission here is finite; that the breath I draw today tomorrow flies all swiftly unto death; And yet I feel that I am part of the undying whole, A kinsman and a comrade of Love's never-resting soul.

And this I know, whatever comes, or early yet or late, Somewhere, sometime, I shall arise a master over fate; For I have seen it written on my Mother Nature's breast, And Love has flashed it to me from the dreamlands of the blest.

One last kiss

ONE LAST KISS

Lift your glowing lips to mine, my darling; kiss me once again; Kiss me, though my heart be broken when our lips are torn in twain; Kiss me, though my soul should waken, weeping, evermore to dwell In the land of utmost grieving, as a citizen of hell.

Kiss me once again, my darling, though my soul forever dies With the dying of the love-light from your clear and splendid eyes; Lift your lips to mine and kiss me, though the kiss leave desolate Every palace I have builded in the dreamland of my fate.

A letter to psyche

A LETTER TO PSYCHE

My soul,—I call you this—I come tonight To send love's pleading message on its flight Across the gulf of silence; and I dream That it will find you by some sylvan stream; That it will reach you ere the hand of fate Has written the death-giving words, Too Late.

Have you forgotten all the golden past? Was it too fair and beautiful to last? Have I, at any moment, dearest one, A single thing to hurt you, said or done? If so, I would recall the word or deed, And for your full forgiveness, dear, I plead.

The days are long without you, dear; so long The hours between the dark and dawn! The song You sang has melted to an undertone, And shadows linger where the sunlight shone; And darkness hastens, dear, to blight The world you made so beautiful and bright.

Your dear, lost face smiles on me through a mist Of tears; the hand that I so oft have kissed Upon my shoulder rests; your witching eyes Are on me, and I turn with glad surprise— A dream? And is this all? And must all end In nothing, and the dream to dust descend?

A man's life is the life his heart receives From her he loves, in whom his soul believes; Beyond her there is nothing more divine, And, so, you were to me my faith and shrine: To all things else I may have been untrue, But never yet an infidel to you.

My heart, my soul's own soul, I come tonight To send love's pleading message on its flight Across the gulf of silence; and I pray That love will guard and haste it on its way; That it will reach you ere the hand of fate Has written the death-giving words, Too Late.

My Woman

MY WOMAN

I want my Woman before I die, Her they stole from my arms with their Christian lie,— I want my Woman before I die! To feel her blood in my heart again, On my lips the storm of her kisses rain; Love-lusting, passionate, undefiled, Ans'ring the cry and the call of the wild,— I want my Woman before I die, I want my Woman before I die!