II

Seek him now, that singing Man. 
Look for him,
Look for him
In the mills,
In the mines;
Where the very daylight pines,—­
He, who once did walk the hills! 
You shall find him, if you scan
Shapes all unbefitting Man,
Bodies warped, and faces dim. 
In the mines; in the mills
Where the ceaseless thunder fills
Spaces of the human brain
Till all thought is turned to pain. 
Where the skirl of wheel on wheel,
Grinding him who is their tool,
Makes the shattered senses reel
To the numbness of the fool. 
Perisht thought, and halting tongue
(Once it spoke;—­once it sung!)
Live to hunger, dead to song. 
Only heart-beats loud with wrong
Hammer on,—­How long?
... How long?—­How long?

Search for him;
Search for him;
Where the crazy atoms swim
Up the fiery furnace-blast. 
You shall find him, at the last,—­
He whose forehead braved the sun,—­
Wreckt and tortured and undone. 
Where no breath across the heat
Whispers him that life was sweet;
But the sparkles mock and flare,
Scattering up the crooked air. 
(Blackened with that bitter mirk,—­
Would God know His handiwork?)

Thought is not for such as he;
Naught but strength, and misery;
Since, for just the bite and sup,
Life must needs be swallowed up. 
Only, reeling up the sky,
Hurtling flames that hurry by,
Gasp and flare, with Why—­Why,
... Why?...

Why the human mind of him
Shrinks, and falters and is dim
When he tries to make it out: 
What the torture is about.—­
Why he breathes, a fugitive
Whom the World forbids to live. 
Why he earned for his abode,
Habitation of the toad! 
Why his fevered day by day
Will not serve to drive away
Horror that must always haunt:—­
... Want ... Want! 
Nightmare shot with waking pangs;—­
Tightening coil, and certain fangs,
Close and closer, always nigh ...
... Why?... Why?

Why he labors under ban
That denies him for a man. 
Why his utmost drop of blood
Buys for him no human good;
Why his utmost urge of strength
Only lets Them starve at length;—­
Will not let him starve alone;
He must watch, and see his own
Fade and fail, and starve, and die.

* * * * *

... Why?... Why?

* * * * *

Heart-beats, in a hammering song,
Heavy as an ox may plod,
Goaded—­goaded—­faint with wrong,
Cry unto some ghost of God
... How long?... How long?
.......... How long?

III