Have we lived long enough to have seen one thing, that hate hath no end? Goddess, and maiden, and queen, must we hail _you_ as Labour's true friend?-- Will you give us a prosperous morrow, and comfort the millions who weep? Will you give them joy for their sorrow, sweet labour, and satisfied sleep? Sweet is the fragrance of flowers, and soft are the wings of the dove, And no goodlier gift is there given than the dower of brotherly love; But you, O May-Day Medusa, whose glance makes the heart turn cold, Art a bitter Goddess to follow, a terrible Queen to behold. We are sick of spouting--the words burn deep and chafe: we are fain, To rest a little from clap-trap, and probe the wild promise of gain. For new gods we know not of are acclaimed by all babbledom's breath, And they promise us love-inspired life--by the red road of hatred and death. The gods, dethroned and deceased, cast forth--so the chatterers say-- Are banished with Flora and Pan, and behold our new Queen of the May! New Queen, fresh crowned in the city, flower-drest, her snake-sceptre a rod, Her orb a decked dynamite bomb, which shall shatter all earth at her nod; But for us their newest device seems barren, and did they but dare To bare the new Queen of the May, were she angel or demon _when_ bare? Time and old gods are at strife; we dwell in the midst thereof, And they are but foolish who curse, and they are but shallow who scoff. Let hate die out, take rest, poor workers, be all at peace; Let the angry battle abate, and the barren bitterness cease! Ah, pleasant and pastoral picture! Thrice welcome whoever shall bring The sunshine of love after Winter, the blossoms of joy with the Spring! Wilt THOU bring it, O new May Queen? If thou canst, come and rule us, and take The laurel, the palm, and the pæan; all bondage but thine we would break, And welcome the branch and the dove. But we look, and we hold our breath, That is not the visage of Love, and beneath the piled blossoms lurks--Death!