Bread by Hope Onslow

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Nov 15, 1899

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 25, No. 46.

Bread

By Hope Onslow

"There's muttering of a terrible storm. Ha! ha! We of the slum Are hardened so we dread no harm, But hope that it will come. We've starved so long in sweaters' dens, Running a scant life-tread, Crowded as if in slaughter-pens, Ah, what have we to dread? We've breathed in poison as from fens, Thinking of bread, bread, bread.

"With feverish haste, we toiled and sweat, Nor caught a sound without. We ran in grooves that men had set, Our hearts destroyed by doubt. We had one thought that drew in all— The hunger thought, that said, 'What if the wage fail?' But the gall That men drink of had fled; Our nervous fingers toiled in thrall, And shrank to bone for bread.

"What care had we for light or air? What care for cleanliness? The lethargy of despair Made all as emptiness. The fierce machines that tore the thread And knit it in the seams With every click were crying, 'Bread;' 'Bread,' shrieked the whistles' screams, And when we sat and drooped our head, 'Bread' filled our very dreams.

"We missed each other's awful eyes, Nor dared look in their depth. They had a gaze more sore than sighs,— Eyes that had never wept, Dry as the pain that ate the heart, And turned it into dust. We felt no other impulse start Than bade us snatch a crust, And sneered at thought of love and art, And ridiculed all trust.

"But, ah, the muttering storm's like yeast! We've wakened from our sleep. The millionaire has made a feast For things that yelp and creep. We are not dogs! They call us beast, And they would shoot us dead. The long endurance hour has ceased When pathos for us plead. Now on, O murmuring storm, the fleeced Cry now for blood or bread!

"Down with the towered castle walls, Down with the steepled dome, Down with the damask curtained walls, What use have we for home? Smite down the statue from the niche, Paint every picture red, Turn every engine from the switch, Care not for whollies dead. We paupers rise now on the rich, And cry for blood and bread.

" 'Go to, ye rich men,' God has said, 'In misery ye shall weep. You've smitten, they shall smite your head With vengeance sore and deep. Kings of earth ye've thought to be, But when all justice fled, Then yelhave reaped most bounteously The seed ye've sown instead. Go to, go to, for such as we War now for blood and bread.

"Hark! We have slain ten thousand soul; The streets are running gore, But look! The heaven's a severed scroll, And passing split and tore. And there's a sound of marching feet, A mighty, mighty tread. Ah, we have made an aimless boast; The King comes that we dread! And we who trusted not are lost, And have but blood not bread.

"Would we had called to God on high, In our sore need below. The Christ is there, who once did die For every sinner's wo. O, would He not have heard our plea, If we had gone and plead, And kept us from the misery We've brought on men instead? Then through love's long eternity We'd had not blood but bread."