Evermore, every hour, Rising from hovel, hall and tower, Swelling the strain of discontent; Gurgled the hopeless prayer for alms, Rung out the wild oath impotent; Echoed by some brief walls of calms, Straining the listener's shrinking ears, Like silence when thunderbolts are near. Across that calm, like gales of balm, Some low, sweet household voices came; Thrilling, like flute-notes straying out From land to sea, some stormy night, The ear that listens for the shout Of drowning boatmen lost to sight-- And died away, again so soon The pulseless air seemed fallen in a swoon. Once pure and clear, Clarion strains fell on his ear: The preacher shook the soulless creeds, And pierced men's hearts with arrowy words, Yet failed to stir them to good deeds: Their new-fledged thoughts, like July birds, Soared on the air and glanced away, Before the eloquent voice could stay. "'Tis very sad the man is mad," The men and women gaily said; As they, laughing, thread their homeward road, Talking of other holidays; Of last year, how it rained or snowed; Who went abroad, who wed a blaze Of diamonds with his shoddy bride, On certain days--and who had died. "Would I were dead, And vexed no more," the Old Year said: "In vain may the preacher pray and warn; The tinkling cymbals in your ears Turn every gracious word to scorn; Ye care not for the orphan's tears; Your sides are fed, and your bodies clad Is there anything heaven itself could add?" And then he sighed, as one who died, With a great wish unsatisfied; Around him like a wintry sea, Whose waves were nations, surged the world, Stormy, unstable, constantly Upheaved to be again down-hurled; Here struggled some for freedom; here Oppression rode in the high career. In hot debate Men struggled, while the hours waxed late; Contending with the watchful zeal Of gladiators, trained to die; Yet not for life, nor country's weal, But that their names might hang on high As men who loved themselves, indeed, And robbed the State to satisfy their need! Heads of snow, and eyes aglow With fires that youth might blush to know; And brows whose youthful fairness shamed The desperate thoughts that strove within; While each his cause exulting named As purest that the world had seen: All names they had to tickle honest ears, Reform, and Rights, and sweet Philanthropy's cares.