by all babbledom’s breath,
  And they promise us love-inspired life—­by the red road of hatred
          and death. 
  The gods, dethroned and deceased, cast forth—­so the chatterers
          say—­
  Are banished with Flora and Pan, and behold our new Queen of the
          May! 
  New Queen, fresh crowned in the city, flower-drest, her
          snake-sceptre a rod,
  Her orb a decked dynamite bomb, which shall shatter all earth at
          her nod;
  But for us their newest device seems barren, and did they but dare
  To bare the new Queen of the May, were she angel or demon when
          bare?

  Time and old gods are at strife; we dwell in the midst thereof,
  And they are but foolish who curse, and they are but shallow who
          scoff. 
  Let hate die out, take rest, poor workers, be all at peace;
  Let the angry battle abate, and the barren bitterness cease! 
  Ah, pleasant and pastoral picture!  Thrice welcome whoever shall
          bring
  The sunshine of love after Winter, the blossoms of joy with the
          Spring! 
  Wilt THOU bring it, O new May Queen?  If thou canst, come and rule
          us, and take
  The laurel, the palm, and the paean; all bondage but thine we would
          break,
  And welcome the branch and the dove.  But we look, and we hold our
          breath,
  That is not the visage of Love, and beneath the piled blossoms
          lurks—­Death!

  A Society all of Love and of Brotherhood!  Beautiful dream! 
  But alas for this Promise of May!  Do not Labour’s Floralia seem
  As flower-feasts fair to her followers?  Look on the wreaths at her
          feet,
  Flung by enthusiast hands from the mine, and the mill, and the
          street,
  Piled flower-offerings, thine, Proletariat Queen of the May! 
  And what means the new Bona Dea? and what would her suppliants say? 
  Organised strength, solidarity, power to band and to strike,
  Hope that is native to Spring,—­and Hate, in all seasons alike;
  Mutual trust of the many—­and menace malign for the few. 
  Citizen, capitalist,—­ah! the hours of your empire seem few,
  An empire ill-gendered, unjust, blindly selfish, and heartlessly
          strong
  For the crushing of famishing weakness, the rearing of
          wealth-founded wrong. 
  Few, if these throngs have their will, for the fierce proletariat
          throbs
  For revenge on the full-fed Bourgeoisie which ruthlessly harries
          and robs. 
  ’Tis fired with alarms, and it arms with hot haste for the
          imminent fray,
  For it quakes at the tramp of King Mob, and the thought of this
          Queen of the May. 
  The bandit of Capital falls, and shall perish in shame and in filth! 
  The harvest of Labour’s at hand!—­The harvest; but red is the