Chants for the Boer

John Stuart Mill · en
Eight millions starved! Yet the Jubilee--
  Why, never such glory since Solomon’s throne.
  The world was glad that it came to see,
  And the Saxon said, “Lo, the world is mine own!”
  But mark you! That glittering great Crown stone,
  And the thousand stars that dimmed in this sun,
  Were stolen, were stolen every one,
  Were stolen from those who starved and died!

         *       *       *       *       *

  Brave Boers, grim Boers, look to your guns!
  They want your diamonds, these younger ones--
  Young generals, lords and gentlemen--
  Robbers to-day as they were robbers then.
  Look to your guns! for a child can see
  (Can your children see now for crying?)
  That they want your gems! Ah, that Jubilee,
  With those lying banners aflying!

[B] See report of Julian Hawthorne, sent by a New York magazine to
photograph and give details of the starving in India, about the time
of the Jubilee. He does not give these figures, but his facts and
photographs warrant a fearful estimate. As for the subjugation of
India and the wanton destruction, not only of life, but the very
means of life, this is history. And now, again, is despoiled India
starving,--starving, dying of hunger as before; even more fearfully,
even while England is trying to despoil the Boers. And when her
speculators and politicians have beaten them and despoiled them of
their gold and diamonds and herds, what then? Why, leave them to starve
as in India, or struggle on in the wilderness as best they can.




AT THE CALEND’S CLOSE.

  “_For faith hath still an Olivet
  And Love a Galilee._”


  Two things: the triple great North Star,
    To poise and keep His spheres in place,
  And Zeus for peace: for peace the Tzar.
    Or Science, Progress, Good or Grace,
  These two the centum’s fruitage are;
      And of the two this olive tree
      Stands first, aye, first since Galilee.

  Christ’s centum bends his frosted head;
    Christ’s calend calls a solemn roll.
  What shall be writ, what shall be said
    Of Saxon when this blood-writ scroll
  By God’s white light at last is read?
      What of ye Saxon nations, ye
      Who prate the Christ most noisily?

  The eagle’s bent beak at the throat
    Of Peace where far, fair islands lie:
  The greedy lion sees a mote
    In his brave, weaker brother’s eye
  And crouches low, to gorge and gloat.
      The Prince of Peace? Ye write his name
      In blood, then dare to pray! For shame!

  These Saxon lies on top of lies,
    Ten millstones to the neck of us,
  Forbid that we should lift our eyes
    Till we dare meet that manlier Russ;
  In peons for peace of paradise:
      Forbid that we, until the day
      We wash our hands, should dare to pray.




AS IT IS WRITTEN.