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JOHN P. ALTGELD

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(After an incarceration of six long years in Joliet state prison for an act of which they were entirely innocent, namely, the throwing of the Haymarket bomb, in Chicago, May 4th, 1886, Oscar Neebe, Michael Schwab and Samuel Fielden, were liberated by Gov. Altgeld, who thus sacrificed his political career to an act of justice.)

There was a tableau! Liberty's clear light

Shone never on a braver scene than that.

Here was a prison, there a Man who sat

High in the Halls of state! Beyond, the might

Of ignorance and Mobs, whose hireling press

Yells at their bidding like the slaver's hounds,

Ready with coarse caprice to curse or bless,

To make or unmake rulers!—Lo, there sounds

A grating of the doors! And three poor men,

Helpless and hated, having naught to give,

Come from their long-sealed tomb, look up, and live,

And thank this Man that they are free again.

And He—to all the world this Man dares say,

"Curse as you will! I have been just this day."

Philadelphia, June, 1893.

THE CRY OF THE UNFIT

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The gods have left us, the creeds have crumbled;

There are none to pity and none to care:

Our fellows have crushed us where we have stumbled;

They have made of our bodies a bleeding stair.

Loud rang the bells in the Christmas steeples;

We heard them ring through the bitter morn:

The promise of old to the weary peoples

Came floating sweetly—"Christ is born."

But the words were mocking, sorely mocking,

As we sought the sky through our freezing tears,

We children, who've hung the Christmas stocking,

And found it empty two thousand years.

No, there is naught in the old creed for us;

Love and peace are to those who win;

To them the delight of the golden chorus,

To us the hunger and shame and sin.

Why then live on since our lives are fruitless,

Since peace is certain and death is rest;

Since our masters tell us the strife is bootless,

And Nature scorns her unwelcome guest?

You who have climbed on our aching bodies,

You who have thought because we have toiled,

Priests of the creed of a newer goddess,

Searchers in depths where the Past was foiled.

Speak in the name of the faith that you cherish!

Give us the truth! We have bought it with woe!

Must we forever thus worthlessly perish,

Burned in the desert and lost in the snow?

Trampled, forsaken, foredoomed, and forgotten—

Helplessly tossed like the leaf in the storm?

Bred for the shambles, with curses begotten,

Useless to all save the rotting grave-worm?

Give us some anchor to stay our mad drifting!

Give, for your own sakes! for lo, where our blood,

A red tide to drown you, is steadily lifting!

Help! or you die in the terrible flood!

Philadelphia, 1893.