Here you will find the Long Poem Young Democracy of poet Bernard O'Dowd
HARK! Young Democracy from sleep Our careless sentries raps: A backwash from the Future?s deep Our Evil?s foreland laps. Unknown, these Titans of our Night Their New Creation make: Unseen, they toil and love and fight That glamoured Man may wake. Knights-errant of the human race, The Quixotes of to-day, For man as man they claim a place, Prepare the tedious way. They seek no dim-eyed mob?s applause, Deem base the titled name, And spurn, for glory of their Cause, The tawdry nymphs of Fame. No masks of ignorance or sin Hide from them you or me: We?re Man?no colour shames our skin, No race or caste have we. The prognathous Neanderthal, To them, conceals the Bruce; They see Dan Aesop in the thrall; From swagmen Christ deduce. Tho? butt for lecher?s ribaldry And scarred by woman?s scorn, In baby-burdened girl they see God-motherhood forlorn. With them, to racial siredom glides The savage we deprave; That eunuch brilliant Narses hides: A Spartacus, that slave. They Jesus find in manger waif; In horse-boys Shakespearehood: And earthquake-Luthers nestling safe In German miner?s brood. The God that pulses everywhere They know fills Satan?s veins; No felon but they see Him there Behind His mirror?s stains. ?Tis theirs Earth?s charnel rooms to clear, And ruthless sweep away The Lares and Penates dear To man in his decay. Their restless energy supplies Munitions that will wreck The keeps whence feudal enemies Our free banditti check. Their unrelenting wars they wage, These Furies of the Right, Where myriad Falsehood?s legions rage, Artilleried by Might; Where Fashion?s stupid iron clamps Young Innovation?s head, And Law the stalwart Present cramps In Past?s Procrustes-bed; Where Pride of learning, substance, blood, Or prowess in the strife, Exacts from teeming lowlihood The lion?s share of life; Where Gluttony would to the brutes Degrade his loose-lipped gangs; Where Tyranny his venom shoots From one or million fangs; Where Cruelty, in Wisdom?s mask, Piths fame from writhing beasts; Where blest is racial Murder?s task By Christ?s apostate priests. In Punic or in Persian fray With Love?s and Conscience? foes, Unadvertising Romans they, And Spartans free from pose. Abused as mad or traitors by The trolls they would eject; Cold-shouldered by wan Apathy; Of motives mean suspect; Outcast from social gaieties; Denied life?s lilied grace; They mount their hidden Calvaries To save the human race. The bowers of Art a few may know; A few wait highly placed: Most bear the hods of common woe, And some you call disgraced. But whether in the mob or school, In church or poverty, They teach and live the Golden Rule Of Young Democracy:? `That culture, joy and goodliness Be th? equal right of all: That Greed no more shall those oppress Who by the wayside fall: `That each shall share what all men sow: That colour, caste?s a lie: That man is God, however low? Is man, however high.?