Yea, tried in stress of effort
    And passions wise and vain,
His zeal hath gathered wisdoms seed
    From fruits of joy and pain. 
His millioned cities echo;
    His ships have pathed the sea;
And with bent brow he toils to make
    The world that yet will be.

=To the Masters=

You drive your beasts of burden forth to
     drink? 
You herd your oxen, each one in his stall? 
You whip and goad until they heed your call? 
You own, and use?  Are these your cattle? 
    Think! 
Although the while they cringe to you and
    shrink. 
And watch their fate in your least finger fall,
Mistake not, lest they rise and ravage all,
And your vast piled-up power to chaos sink!

The earthquake gives slight time to ward its
    shock;
But racks the earth, nor warns of where or
    when;
The hurricane that makes the city rock,
Speaks not with previous voice unto your ken;
Vesuvius and Aetna horror mock,
And tidal waves.  Think:  These you crush are
    Men!

=To the Enemies of Free Speech=

As well to lay your hands upon the sun
And try with bonds to bind the morning light,
As well on the four winds to spend your might,
As well to strive against the streams that run;
As well to bar the seasons, bid be done
The rain which falls; as well to blindly fight
Against the air, and at your folly’s height
Aspire to make all power that is none.

As well to do this as to impeach
Man’s tongue, and bid it answer to the schools;
As well to do all this, as give us rules. 
And bid us hold our words within your reach;
As well as this, as try to chain man’s speech. 
So others learned before ye lived, O fools!

=Magdalene Passes=

What one is this, that bears the band of
     shame within her breast,
And wanders through the mocking land, denied
     a place of rest? 
What one is this, your hue and cry pursue
     with withering hate,
Until her best hope is to die, nor meet a
     harder fate?

This, this is she who hides her head in shame
     to gloom the sun;
Who waits, as in their graves the dead, until
     the day is done;
Whose tasks make pitiful the dark, and dreadful
     all the night,
And leave her spirit striken stark and crushed
     at morning light.

Beneath the shadows of silk and lace her form
     is spare and shrunk,
And through the rogue upon her face see how
     her cheeks have sunk,
Her lightsome laugh hides not her thought;
     her brow is scarred with care. 
And her flashing rings with jewels wrought,
     but gild and grace despair.

Has she no tears to weep for grief, no voice to
     cry with woe,
No memories panged beyond belief for joys
     of long ago,
Has she no tortured dreams to smart, no anguish
     for her brow,
Has she no broken bleeding heart, that you
     must curse her now?