Page:In Bohemia (1886).djvu/29

The word remains: but the Evil now
Is caused, not cured, by imperial hands,—
The lightless soul and the narrow brow,
The servile millions in armed bands;
The sweat-wrung gold from the peasant's toil
Flung merrily out by the gambling lord.
Who is reckless owner of serf and soil.
And master of church and law and sword.

But the night has receded: the dawn like a tide
Creeps slow round the world, till the feet of the throne
Are lapped by the waves that shall seethe and ride
Where the titles are gulfed and the shields overblown.
Our Kings are the same as the Kings of old.
But a Man stands up where there crouched a clown;
The Evil shall die when his hand grows bold,
And the touch of the People is laid on the Crown!