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J Bronterre
A man who lived for truth, and truth alone—
Brave as the bravest—generous as brave;
A man whose heart was rent by every moan
That burst from every trodden, tortured slave;
A man prepared to fight, prepared to die,
To lighten, banish, human misery.
The mighty scorned him, vilified, oppressed;
The bitter cup of poverty and pain
Forced him to drink. He was misfortune's guest
Through weary, weary years; his anguish'd brain
Shed tears of pity—wrath—for Mankind's woe;
For his own sorrows tears could never flow.
He loved the people with a brother's love;
He hated tyrants with a tyrant's hate.
He turned from kings below, to God above—
The King of kings, who smites the wicked great.
The shame, the scourge, the terror of their race,
Those demons in earth's holy dwelling-place.
Thou noble soul!—around thee gathered those
Who, poor and trampled patriots, were like thee.
Thou art not dead!—thy martyred spirit glows
In us, a band devoted of the free;
We best can celebrate thy natal day,
By virtues, valours, such as marked thy way.
WILLIAM MACCALL,
