Poor Slave! Lured to
the galley's lowest deck, then chained there. Civilization, tricked
fool, they say has need of such. You serve as the dogs of Eastern
towns. But at least, it seems to me, we need not spit on you. Home
to your kennel! Perchance, if the Gods be kind, they may send you
dreams of a cleanly hearth, where you lie with a silver collar round
your neck.
Next comes the labourer--the hewer of wood, the drawer of water-
-slouching wearily to his toil; sleep clinging still about his
leaden eyes, his pittance of food carried tied up in a dish-clout.
The first stroke of the hour clangs from Big Ben. Haste thee,
fellow-slave, lest the overseer's whip, "Out, we will have no
lie-a-beds here," descend upon thy patient back.
Later, the artisan, with his bag of tools across his shoulder. He,
too, listens fearfully to the chiming of the bells. For him also
there hangs ready the whip.
After him, the shop boy and the shop girl, making love as they walk,
not to waste time. And after these the slaves of the desk and of
the warehouse, employers and employed, clerks and tradesmen, office
boys and merchants. To your places, slaves of all ranks. Get you
unto your burdens.
Now, laughing and shouting as they run, the children, the sons and
daughters of the slaves.
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