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Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Post-Mortem

BURY me with clenched hands
And eyes open wide,
For in storm and struggle I lived,
And in struggle and storm I died.

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Axiom

LET him who toils, enjoy
Fruit of his toiling.
Let him whom sweats annoy,
No more be spoiling.
For we would have it be
That, weak or stronger,
Not he who works, but he
Who works not, hunger!

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England

WHERE'ER I go in this dense East,
In sunshine or shade,
I retch at the villainous feast
That England has made,
And my shame cannot understand,
As scorn springs elate,
How I ever loved that land
I loathe and hate!

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A Mahomedan Ship Fireman

UP from the oven pit,
The hell where poor men toil,
At the sunset hour he comes
Clean-clothed, washed from soil.
On the fo'c's'le head he kneels,
His face to the hallowed West.
He prays, and bows and prays.
Does he pray for death and rest?

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The Outcasts

(Melbourne)

HERE to the parks they come,
The scourings of the town,
Like weary wounded animals
Seeking where to lie them down.
Brothers, let us take together
An easeful period.
There is worse than to be as We are —
Cast out, not of Men but of God!

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London

CRUEL City, London, London,
Where, duped slaves of devils' creeds,
Men and women desperate, undone,
Dream such dreams, and do such deeds:
London, London, cruel city,
By day serpent, by night vampire —
God, in thy great pity, pity,
Give us light — though it be fire!

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Prayer

THIS is what I pray
In this horrible day,
In this terrible night —
I may still have light.
Such as I have had,
That I go not mad.
This is what I seek —
I may keep me meek
Till mine eyes behold,
Till my lips have told
All this hellish Crime. —
Then it's sleeping time!

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Lord Leitrim

BRUTE beast, at last you have it! Now we know
Truth's not a phrase, justice an idle show.
Your life ran red with murder, green with lust.
Blood has washed blood clean, and in the final dust
Your carrion will be purified. Yet, see,
Though your body perish, for your soul shall be
An immortality of infamy!

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Move on!

'THE foxes have holes,
And the birds of the air have nests,
But where shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid?'
'Where the cold corpse rests,
Where the sightless moles
Burrow and yet cannot make it afraid,
Rout but cannot wake it again,
There shall the heads of the sons of men
Be laid, be laid!'

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To The Christians

TAKE, then, your paltry Christ,
Your gentleman God.
We want the carpenter's son,
With his saw and hod.
We want the man who loved
The poor and the oppressed,
Who hated the Rich man and King
And the Scribe and the Priest.
We want the Galilean
Who knew cross and rod.
It's your 'good taste' that prefers
A bastard 'God!'

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