Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/776

 Bring me my bow of burning gold! Bring me my arrows of desire! Bring me my spear: O clouds, unfold! Bring me my chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem In England's green and pleasant land.

(See pages 97, 222)

I know not if I deserve that a laurel-wreath should one day be laid on my coffin. Poetry, dearly as I have loved it, has always been to me but a divine plaything. I have never attached any great value to poetical fame; and I trouble myself very little whether people praise my verses or blame them. But lay on my coffin a sword; for I was a brave soldier in the Liberation War of humanity

The Last Word

(See page 203)

They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee. Better men fared thus before thee; Fired their ringing shot and pass'd, Hotly charged—and broke at last.