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Poem	Where the needle-woman toils Through the night with hand and brain, Till the sickly daylight shudders like a spectre at the pain – Till her eyes seem to crawl, And her brain seems to creep – And her limbs are all a-tremble for the want of rest and sleep! It is there the fire-brand blazes in my blood; and it is there That I see the crimson banner of the Children of Despair! That I feel the soul and music in a rebel's battle song, And the greatest love for justice and the hottest hate for wrong! When the foremost in his greed Presses heavy on the last – In the brutal spirit rising from the grave-yard of the past – Where the poor are trodden down And the rich are deaf and blind! It is there I feel the greatest love and pity for mankind: There – where heart to heart is saying, though the tongue and lip be still: We've been through it all and know it! brother, we've been through the mill! There the spirits of my brothers rise the higher for defeat, And the drums of revolution roll for ever in the street! Christ is coming once again, And his day is drawing near; He is leading on the thousands of the army of the rear! We shall know the second advent By the lower skies aflame With the signals of his coming, for he comes not as he came – Not humble, meek, and lowly, as he came in days of old, But with hatred, retribution for the worshippers of gold! And the roll of battle music and the steady tramp of feet Sound for ever in the thunder and the rattle of the street!
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