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44 O ye who shake hills with the scream of your mirth, When cities sink howling in ruin; and ye Who with wingless footsteps trample the sea, And close upon Shipwreck and Famine's track, Sit chattering with joy on the foodless wreck; Come, come, come! Leave the bed, low, cold, and red, Strewed beneath a nation dead; Leave the hatred, as in ashes Fire is left for future burning; It will burst in bloodier flashes When ye stir it, soon returning; Leave the self-contempt implanted In young spirits, sense-enchanted, Misery's yet unkindled fuel; Leave Hell's secrets half unchanted To the maniac dreamer; cruel More than ye can be with hate Is he with fear. Come, come, come! We are steaming up from Hell's wide gate And we burden the blasts of the atmosphere, But vainly we toil till ye come here.