Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Fragment: "Wake the
Serpent Not"

W

AKE the serpent not- lest he
Should not know the way to

sleeping

go,

Let him crawl which yet lies

Through the deep grass of the meadow!
Not a bee shall hear him creeping,
Not a May-fly shall awaken
From its cradling bluebell shaken,
Not the starlight as he's sliding
Through the grass with silent gliding.

Song to the Men of

England

I.

EN of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and

care

The rich robes your tyrants wear?

II.

Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save,
From the cradle to the grave,

Those ungrateful drones who would

Drain

your sweat

nay, drink your blood?

III.

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,

That these stingless drones may spoil The forced produce of your toil?

IV.

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear

With your pain and with

your

fear?

V.

The seed ye sow, another reaps;
The wealth ye find, another keeps ;
The robes ye weave, another wears;
The arms ye forge, another bears.

VI.

Sow seed, but let no tyrant reap; Find wealth, let no impostor heap; Weave robes, - let not the idle wear; Forge arms, in your defence to bear.

VII.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells; In halls ye deck another dwells.

Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

VIII.

With plough and spade, and hoe and loom,

Trace your grave, and build

your tomb,

And weave your winding-sheet, till fair

England be your sepulchre.

a lovely one

But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road, That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode. Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair,

For thine own sake I cannot follow thee.

S from an ancestral oak

Two empty ravens sound their

clarion,

Yell by yell, and croak by croak,

When we scent the noonday smoke

Of fresh human carrion:

II.

As two gibbering night-birds flit
From their bowers of deadly yew
Through the night to frighten it,
When the moon is in a fit,

And the stars are none, or few: