“What, you!” his comrades cried, “who led us long
Against the dense arrays of dullards’ thought,
You quit us on the march, so quickly caught
By such a strain, a simple peasant-song?
That breath of old brown earth is strangely strong,
To lure you to the fields where hinds untaught
Toil slavish, or by common coinage bought,
Or meanly fearful of the Master’s thong!”
“Yea, dear the song,—although I may not sing;
Yea, dear the soil,—although I delve it not!
I fall not back, but peaceful pass beyond.
For freedom’s sake your hearts are fiery-hot,
Yet through the tramp I hear your fetters ring!
Denial is the straitest kind of bond.”