Through the stalls wherein ye sit sounds a sentence while we wait,
  Set your house in order:  is it not builded on the sand? 
  Set your house in order, seeing the night is hard at hand. 
As the twilight of the Gods in the northern dream of fate
Is this hour that comes against you, albeit this hour come late. 
  Ye whom Time and Truth bade heed, and ye would not understand,
  Now an axe draws nigh the tree overshadowing all the land,
And its edge of doom is set to the root of all your state. 
Light is more than darkness now, faith than fear and hope than hate,
  And what morning wills, behold, all the night shall not withstand. 
Rods of office, helms of rule, staffs of wise men, crowns of great,
  While the people willed, ye bare; now their hopes and hearts expand,
Time with silent foot makes dust of your broken crowns and rods,
And the lordship of your godhead is gone, O Lords our Gods.

CLEAR THE WAY!

Clear the way, my lords and lackeys! you have had your day. 
Here you have your answer—­England’s yea against your nay: 
Long enough your house has held you:  up, and clear the way!

Lust and falsehood, craft and traffic, precedent and gold,
Tongue of courtier, kiss of harlot, promise bought and sold,
Gave you heritage of empire over thralls of old.

Now that all these things are rotten, all their gold is rust,
Quenched the pride they lived by, dead the faith and cold the lust,
Shall their heritage not also turn again to dust?

By the grace of these they reigned, who left their sons their sway: 
By the grace of these, what England says her lords unsay: 
Till at last her cry go forth against them—­Clear the way!

By the grace of trust in treason knaves have lived and lied: 
By the force of fear and folly fools have fed their pride: 
By the strength of sloth and custom reason stands defied.

Lest perchance your reckoning on some latter day be worse,
Halt and hearken, lords of land and princes of the purse,
Ere the tide be full that comes with blessing and with curse.

Where we stand; as where you sit, scarce falls a sprinkling spray;
But the wind that swells, the wave that follows, none shall stay: 
Spread no more of sail for shipwreck:  out, and clear the way!

A WORD FOR THE COUNTRY.

Men, born of the land that for ages
  Has been honoured where freedom was dear,
Till your labour wax fat on its wages
  You shall never be peers of a peer. 
      Where might is, the right is: 
        Long purses make strong swords. 
      Let weakness learn meekness: 
        God save the House of Lords!

You are free to consume in stagnation: 
  You are equal in right to obey: 
You are brothers in bonds, and the nation
  Is your mother—­whose sons are her prey. 
      Those others your brothers,
        Who toil not, weave, nor till,
      Refuse you and use you
        As waiters on their will.