[1] _Hamlet_, Act V., Sc. 2. Who _cares_? Not you, it would seem. For you stand with stubborn front, And backs in hatred averted, and ears to all counsels closed; While ten thousand innocent lives of _your_ quarrel are bearing the brunt, And a myriad hands hang idle because _you_ are fiercely opposed. Look at them! Gathered hungry about an empty grate. Whilst the coal they crave lies idle within the unpeopled mine, And Wealth and Work, at odds, when invited to arbitrate-- Decline! Capital sets its face, and cocks a contemptuous nose, And Labour, lounging sullenly, snaps its jaws like a spring; And the land must stand at gaze whilst they fight it out as foes! How long must we wait the issue, how long must we "keep the ring"? Are there no rights save yours, no claims save your warring wills? Sense has a word to say, Justice a thing to do. Are we to wait and wait while the land with suffering thrills, For _you_? Sympathy? Ay, good friends! But sympathy's not like wrath, One-eyed, one-sided, partial. Sympathy's due to all Who fall, fate-tripped and bruised, in your quarrel's Juggernaut path. We think of the wives and children--Charity heeds their call; Does she not proffer her dole "without prejudice"?--Yes, but they Are not sole sufferers now from the Coal War's venomous strife. Thousands of unknown hearts are pleading for Peace to-day-- And _Life_! Strong men "out of work," weak women as "out of heart," Factory gates unopened, and Workhouse gates fast shut. Traffic hampered, arrested, piled trains unable to start. Famine in homes and hearths, trade dead-lock and market-glut! The coal lies there in the mine, untouched of hammer and pick, While yon pale widow-woman must haggle in vain for enough To charge her tiny grate! Faith! the heart that turns not sick Is tough! Tough, my lords of Capital! Hard as the coal-seam black Your Cyclops-drudges dig at--when you will allow them to dig. Say, on your conscience now, _is_ your purse so slender and slack That you _cannot_ bend a little to those who have made you big? The wealth the sunlight stored men hew for you in the dark, From the black and poisonous caverns which once were forests free, 'Tis yours--till certain questions are asked and answered! Hark To me! Men will not _always_ stand, while Monopoly wages war, Mute, unquestioning, suffering. Greed, and starvation wage, The crowd of want-urged captives shackled to Mammon's car, Show not the welcomest things to this curious, questioning age. To-day the appeal's to Pity. To-morrow--well, never mind!-- Look on the sorrowful picture that _Punch_ commends to your view! Man many a time has found there is wisdom in being kind. Will _you_?