| Title | The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists |
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| Page | 1382 |
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| Chapter | -- |
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| Text |
`Through squalid life they laboured in sordid grief they died Those sons of a mighty mother, those props of England's pride. They are gone, there is none can undo it, nor save our souls from the curse, But many a million cometh, and shall they be better or worse? `It is We must answer and hasten and open wide the door, For the rich man's hurrying terror, and the slow foot hope of the poor,ea, the voiceless wrath of the wretched and their unlearned discontent, We must give it voice and wisdom, till the waiting tide be spent Come then since all things call us, the living and the dead, And o'er the weltering tangle a glimmering light is shed.' |
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