“The narrow harsh rule Of base mean parents, Whose played-out ideas drive All of good and of fair thence: “That our prostitute girls Come from just the same Cause— Why, these idiots know nothing Of facts, social laws! “Kill them, then! Hang them all! We (like God) must be just. It was all their own faults, Not ours. . . . Dust to dust!” II. (_The Time-Spirit speaks_.) “Poor lads! And you for others’ wrongs and sins Whose dead past greed and lust did never wince To make your fathers, mothers, and now you Miserable fiends in hell, must expiate, since “We the more guilty, we the strong, the few, Whose triumph thrusts you down into the stew, Fear lest our victims rise and rend us, fear This problem mad we will not listen to! “Victims, with her your fellow-victim here, Blind, deaf, dumb beasts, the hour shall yet appear When men, when justicers resolute-terrible, you Shall speak and all men tremble as they hear!” “TYRANNY.” (_Melbourne_.) [_The Delegates speak_.] “‘Tyranny’? Yes, that’s it! We are not afraid To face the word that’s fit For what we’ve said! “It’s the tyranny of the Many, That will not allow There’s the right to any To seek wealth and power now “At the expense of the Many. Say, that one or this Works ‘over hours’: then he Drives us all to the abyss, “Where, struggling together One rises again While the rest all together Are stifled and slain. “From this death-strife of brothers Comes the tyranny of One. That’s _your_ sort. But we others, _We prefer our own_!” FROM A VERANDAH. (_Sydney_.) “_Armageddon_.” O city lapped in sun and Sabbath rest, With happy face of plenteous ease possessed, Have you no doubts that whisper, dreams that moan Disquietude, to stir your slumbering breast? Think you the sins of other climes are gone? The harlot’s curse rings in your streets—the groan Of out-worn men, the stabbed and plundered slaves Of ever-growing Greed, these are your own! O’er you shall sweep the fiery hell that craves For quenchment the bright blood of human waves: For you, if you repent not, shall atone For Greed’s dark death-holes with War’s swarming graves! “ELSIE:” A MEMORY. Little elfin maid, Old, though scarce two years, With your big dark hazel eyes Tenderer than tears, And your rosebud mouth Lisping jocund things, Breaking brooding silence with Wistful questionings! Like a flower you grew While life’s bright sun shone. Does the greedy spendthrift earth Heed a flower is gone? No; but Love’s fond ken, That gropes through Death’s strange ways, Almost seems to hear your Voice, Seems to see your Face! “NATIONALISM AND M‘ILWRAITH!” THE QUEENSLAND ELECTIONS CRY, 1888.