A seedy tricycle he rode, Perchance some three miles in the hour, But, on the big red box that glowed Behind him, was a name of Power, _JUSTICE_, (I read it e’er I wist,) _The Organ of the Socialist_! The paper carts fled fleetly by And vanished up the roaring Strand, And eager purchasers drew nigh Each with his penny in his hand, But _Justice_, scarce more fleet than I, Began to permeate the land, And dark, methinks, the twilight fell, Or ever _Justice_ reached Pall Mall. Oh Man, (I stopped to moralize,) How eager thou to fight with Fate, To bring Astraea from the skies; Yet ah, how too inadequate The means by which thou fain wouldst cope With Laws and Morals, King and Pope! “_Justice_!”—how prompt the witling’s sneer,— “Justice! Thou wouldst have Justice here! And each poor man should be a squire, Each with his competence a year, Each with sufficient beef and beer, And all things matched to his desire, While all the Middle Classes should With every vile Capitalist Be clean reformed away for good, And vanish like a morning mist! “Ah splendid Vision, golden time, An end of hunger, cold, and crime. An end of Rent, an end of Rank, An end of balance at the Bank, An end of everything that’s meant To bring Investors five per cent!” How fair doth Justice seem, I cried, Yet oh, how strong the embattled powers That war against on every side Justice, and this great dream of ours, And what have we to plead our cause ’Gainst Masters, Capital, and laws, What but a big red box indeed, With copies of a weekly screed, That’s slowly jolted, up and down, Behind an old velocipede To clamour _Justice_ through the town: How touchingly inadequate These arms wherewith we’d vanquish Fate! Nay, the old Order shall endure And little change the years shall know, And still the Many shall be poor, And still the Poor shall dwell in woe; Firm in the iron Law of things The strong shall be the wealthy still, And (called Capitalists or Kings) Shall seize and hoard the fruits of skill. Leaving the weaker for their gain, Leaving the gentler for their prize Such dens and husks as beasts disdain,— Till slowly from the wrinkled skies The fireless frozen Sun shall wane, Nor Summer come with golden grain; Till men be glad, mid frost and snow To live such equal lives of pain As now the hutted Eskimo! Then none shall plough nor garner seed, Then, on some last sad human shore, Equality shall reign indeed, The Rich shall be with us no more, Thus, and not otherwise, shall come The new, the true Millennium! ALMAE MATRES. (ST. ANDREWS, 1862. OXFORD, 1865)