THE WHITE SLAVES.
219
And millions, waiting wearily, in silence feed its flame;
No smoke rolls from the crater, nor hot winds round it blow,
But, deep within its throbbing heart, the fires are all aglow;
Woe to the land that circles it when the wild moment falls,
And the long-smothered fury bursts from out its prison walls!
No smoke rolls from the crater, nor hot winds round it blow,
But, deep within its throbbing heart, the fires are all aglow;
Woe to the land that circles it when the wild moment falls,
And the long-smothered fury bursts from out its prison walls!
Now let us wake from sleep and ease before the fatal day,
Nor dream such grief and wrong can die in voiceless calm away;
For surely as the mountain stream leaps down to find the sea,
This high-born race, through love or hate, must hasten to be free.
Oh, louder, grander, till the words like trumpet-charges call,
Let every soul cry, "Liberty!" and "Liberty for all!"
Nor dream such grief and wrong can die in voiceless calm away;
For surely as the mountain stream leaps down to find the sea,
This high-born race, through love or hate, must hasten to be free.
Oh, louder, grander, till the words like trumpet-charges call,
Let every soul cry, "Liberty!" and "Liberty for all!"
