Rebel Verses Part 1

Rebel Verses.

by Bernard Gilbert.

The Rebel

I live in music, in poetry, and in the life reflective.

I seek intellectual boldness in man, I worship mental swiftness in women.

I have no love for lawyers, priests, schoolmasters, or any dogmatic men.

I am with poor against rich, labour against employer, women against men; I fight beside all strikers, mutineers, and rebels.

I welcome foes; I desire criticism.

I loathe prejudice, either social or national; I repudiate all claims.

I demand freedom of action and leisure for reflection.

Facing Death, I would say: 'I have tasted all, tried all, dared all, suffered all, and I repent nothing.'

Song of Revolt

Crowns are ashake, The princes and the Kings are bending low, And, round the world, Before the blast of Freedom, thrones are hurled: The People are awake!

Over the Ark of Tyranny The red flag flaunts abroad for all to see!

Whilst to the roll of drums Swelling triumphantly, the glad cry comes: The People shall be free!

In dungeons, men, long-bound for freedom's sake, Forgotten of G.o.d, deep-frozen by despair, Hear with surprise that clangorous fanfare: The People are awake!

Our fathers heard the call, When Liberty from her bonds like the angry sea, Pouring mightily forth, slew tyranny, And singing the Ma.r.s.eillaise, bade crowns to fall, That all men should be free!

Men shall be slaves no more!

From sea to sea That Word of hope unspeakable succour brings; The day dawneth when there are no more Kings: And the People, the People shall be free!

There Aint no G.o.d

There aint no G.o.d!

Coz if there were-- My boy what's under foreign sod Would be alive, and here: Instead of which young William Porter What never listed when he orter-- Has his farm; And braunges yonder safe away from harm.

Poor lad!--he went-- I can't forgit that night-- While Porter laughed him outer sight; Now--he is spent: Porter's all right.

What does he care?

He's thinking of another farm, Instead of laying in some ditch He's rich!

And folk'll gallop at his nod.

I say it!

Dost hear me ... Thou?

There aint no G.o.d!

'The Night is Dark'

Safe-guarded dwellers in your sea-girt eyrie How fares the fight?

Terror has crept beneath your ocean wall, Horror is over-reaching, to appal; Your sons are menaced by a furnace fiery: What of the night?

A hundred years have pa.s.sed at ease Since last you fought on bended knees; And joints, unused, grow stiff and old, And hearts unroused are faint and cold; Whilst they who own but wealth, their creed, Stand helpless in the hour of need.

Oh peace-bound nation!

Lapped in rich sloth; untroubled generation!

Know you that races change?

Some dwindle slowly downward in decay, Unconscious, till the dawning of the day: At touch of fire we learn how they are faring; Thrice welcome is the test to nations daring; To some--how strange!

Our ancient enemy--now brother-- From one Napoleon to another Has seen his country ebb and flow And now he holds the sternest foe, Learning the lesson of strenuous fight To brace defensive armour tight: But what of you--old Islanders So roughly woke?

Has gilded sloth 'mid dreamless calm Stifled your soul, close wrapped from harm, In Neptune's cloak?

Or is it but an idle dress, Thrown off at breath of fearful stress?

Or has it slowly strangled that old oak?

None may foretell; But this we know: As fire testeth iron through and through, So shall it be with you!

Not yet have you pa.s.sed furnace-wise, But soon, with newly opened eyes, Upon your knees, You shall discern Heaven's judgment on an age-long ease.

Poets and prophets darkly sang; Unheeded then the tocsin rang; But now the sky is grey and dim, Your enemy is stern and grim, Your leaders slow; And, though you realise it not ...

You may lie low: For, though to fight one son is bold, Another hides, ama.s.sing gold; The strain falls not in equal measure: Whilst some lie cold-- Others distil their blood for treasure, And that--Old England--if unchecked, Shall see your ancient Empire wrecked.

You battle not to vanquish a great nation, Nor for safety, nor the sceptre of the seas, Nor for the Empire of a world at ease, Nor fame's fair scroll: For your salvation, You wrestle with Apollyon for your soul.

And if you fail-- Your epitaph: 'too late'-- The Angel with the Pen shall grave your fate: Your glorious history of no avail; Whilst all the Earth shall know you were not great.

Not arms, nor weapons forged, nor serried forces, Nor stout Allies nor multiplied resources The victory giveth; Not ships afar, nor numbers gradual tale, Nor all your might, oh Britain! shall avail: Only the Spirit liveth!

Yet this our hope (a hope unsaid), And still our faith (though faith be dead), That, as of old, you may awake, Cast off your senile mood, and shake Irresolution to the wall; Bid equal sacrifice from all; That each surrender to the state A measured offering to fate, Till Unity of Will, controlled Shines through the nation, manifold:

Then should your Spirit conquer as before, And Phnix-like you should renew your youth and strength once more.

Return

From exile and disaster, From banishment set free, We shall return in sorrow, Our homes once more to see.