- It is portentous, and a thing of state
- That here at midnight, in our little town,
- A mourning figure walks, and will not rest,
- Near the old court-house pacing up and down.
- Or by his homestead, or in shadowed yards
- He lingers where his children used to play;
- Or through the market, on the well-worn stones
- He stalks until the dawn-stars burn away.
- A bronzed, lank man! His suit of ancient black,
- A famous high top-hat and plain worn shawl
- Make him the quaint great figure that men love,
- The prairie-lawyer, master of us all.
- He cannot sleep upon his hillside now.
- He is among us:—as in times before!
- And we who toss and lie awake for long
- Breathe deep, and start, to see him pass the door.
- His head is bowed. He thinks on men and kings.
- Yes, when the sick world cries, how can he sleep?
- Too many peasants fight, they know not why,
- Too many homesteads in black terror weep.
- The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart,
- He sees the dreadnoughts scouring every main.
- He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now
- The bitterness, the folly, and the pain.
- He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn
- Shall come—the shining hope of Europe free:
- The league of sober folk, the Workers’ Earth
- Bringing long peace to Cornland, Alp and Sea.
- It breaks his heart that kings must murder
still,
- That all his hours of travail here for men
- Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace
- That he may sleep upon his hill again?
