Page:Posthumous poems (IA posthumousswinb00swin).pdf/160

All the noise of the night,
 All the thunder of things,
All the terrors be hurled
Of the blind brute-force of the world,
All the weight of the fight,
Al men's violent might,
 All the confluence of Kings;

Rouse all earth against us,
 Hurl all heaven against thee?
Though it be thus, though it were,
Speak to us, if thou be there,
Save, tho' indeed it be thus
Then that the dolorous
 Stream sweeps off to the sea.

Lift up heads that are hidden,
 Strengthen hearts that are faint;
Lighten on eyes that are blind
To the poor of thy kind,
Courage their lives over-ridden,
Smitten how sorely and chidden
 Sharply with reins of restraint.

Peace, it may be he will say,
 Somewhat, if yet ye will hear
Some great word of a chief
Ask not of joy, neither grief,

128