For we would have it be That, weak or stronger, Not he who works, but he Who works _not_, hunger! DRILL. When day’s hard task’s done, Eve’s scant meal partaken, Out we steal each one, Weariless, unshaken. In small reeking squares, Garbaged plots, we gather, Little knots and pairs, Brother, sister, father. Then the word is given. In their silent places Under lowering heaven, Range our stern-set faces. Now we march and wheel In our clumsy line, Shouldering sticks for steel, Thoughts like bitter brine! Drill, drill, drill, and drill! It is only thus Conquer yet we will Those who’ve conquered us. Patience, sisters, mothers! We must not forget Dear dead fathers, brothers; They must teach us yet. In that hour we see, The hour of our desire, What shall their slayers be? _As the stubble to the fire_! EVENING HYMN IN THE HOVELS. “We sow the fertile seed and then we reap it; We thresh the golden grain; we knead the bread. Others that eat are glad. In store they keep it, While we hunger outside with hearts like lead. _Hallelujah_! “We hew the stone and saw it, rear the city. Others inhabit there in pleasant ease. We have no thing to ask of them save pity, No answer they to give but what they please. _Hallelujah_! “Is it for ever, fathers, say, and mothers, That we must toil and never know the light? Is it for ever, sisters, say, and brothers, That they must grind us dead here in the night? _Hallelujah_! “O we who sow, reap, knead, shall we not also Have strength and pleasure of the food we make? O we who hew, build, deck, shall we not also The happiness that we have given partake? _Hallelujah_!” IN THE STREET. LORD ----. You have done well, we say it. You are dead, And, of the man that with the right hand takes Less than the left hand gives, let it be said He has done something for our wretched sakes. For those to whom you gave their daily bread Rancid with God-loathed “charity,” their drink Putrid with man-loathed “sin,” we bow our head Grateful, as the great hearse goes by, and think. Yes, you have fed the flesh and starved the soul Of thousands of us; you have taught too well The rich are little gods beyond control, Save of your big God of the heaven and hell. We thank you. This was pretty once, and right. Now it wears rather thin. My lord, good night! “LIBERTY!” “Liberty!” Is that the cry, then? We have heard it oft of yore. Once it had, we think, a meaning; Let us hear it now no more. We have read what history tells us Of its heroes, martyrs too. Doubtless they were very splendid, But they’re not for me and you.