IN trumpet-toned accents I heard <br /> A voice in a vision to cry;— <br />'By threat of no tyrant deterred, <br /> We rear up our banner on high. <br /> <br />'No longer, tho' feeble and poor, <br /> We'll wear out our days in the dust, <br />Our freedom we're sworn to procure, <br /> And have it or perish we must. <br /> <br />'Far better we rush to the grave, <br /> The bed of each mortal at last, <br />Than eat the vile bread of the slave— <br /> Than pine as we've pined in the past. <br /> <br />'The life of the hero's a boon, <br /> A blossom the meanest must prize; <br />The life of the faint-hearted loon, <br /> A weed that the noble despise. <br /> <br />'Then up,' cried the voice, and I thought, <br /> While loud the deep accents yet rang, <br />A turbann'd oppressor was brought, <br /> To think of his deeds with a pang. <br /> <br />1878.<br /><br />Joseph Skipsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-resolve-5/
