Comrades, look up, at last the mists are clearing,
See, from earth’s travail freedom springs newborn;
The goal of all our hopes at last we’re nearing;
This is the last dark hour before the dawn.
The blood-stained tryrant in his palace splendid,
Who rules to-day by might of iron hand,
Is doomed. E’en now the sword of fate, suspended
Above him, hangs by but a single strand.
The other tryants too—the robber band
Who lord it o’er the world industrial,
Who in their greed oppress and crush the land;
Upon them, also, that sharp sword shall fall.
Not long ago, blind, ignorant and dumb
I saw my brothers in the darkness grope;
I knew some day the light to them would come.
Yet of its coming soon had little hope.
But now ’tis changed, the first flush of the dawn
Is here; the light is spreading in the sky;
I, I myself, shall see the world newborn,
Shall see the last of slavery passaway.
Cotton’s Weekly, Thursday, March 4, 1909