A Mahommadan Ship Fireman.

Up from the oven pit,
    The hell where poor men toil,
At the sunset hour he comes
    Clean-clothed, washed from soil.

On the fo'c's'le head he kneels,
    His face to the hallowed West.
He prays, and bows and prays.
    Does he pray for death and rest?

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Francis William Lauderdale Adams (27 September 1862 – 4 September 1893) was an English writer, poet, dramatist, and social reformer. His literary work often reflected his radical socialist views. Adams lived a life marred by poverty and struggles with his health, eventually committing suicide at the age of 30. Despite his brief life, his contributions to literature and social thought remain significant.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Parallels For The Pious.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

To The Emperor William.

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

New Guinea "Converts."

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

Epode. "On The Ranges, Queensland."

Francis William Lauderdale Adams, Simple Poetry

English

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Prayer.

This is what I pray
In this horrible day,
In this terrible night,
God will give me light.
Such as I have had,
That I go not mad.

This is what I seek,
God will keep me meek
Till mine eyes behold,
Till my lips have told
All this hellish crime. -
Then it's sleeping time!

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

John Maynard.

'Twas on Lake Erie's broad expanse
One bright midsummer day,
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen
Swept proudly on her way.
Bright faces clustered on the deck,
Or, leaning o'er the side,
Watched carelessly the feathery foam
That flecked the rippling tide.

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky,
That smiling bends serene,
Could dream that danger awful, vast,
Impended o'er the scene,-
Could dream that ere an hour had sped
That frame of sturdy oak
Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves,
Blackened with fire and smoke?

A seaman sought the captain's side,
A moment whispered low;
The captain's swarthy face grew pale;
He hurried down below.
Alas, too late! Though quick, and sharp,
And clear his orders came,
No human efforts could ava...

Horatio Alger, Jr.

In The Pit. "Chant Of The Firemen."

"This is the steamer's pit.
    The ovens like dragons of fire
Glare thro' their close-lidded eyes
    With restless hungry desire.

"Down from the tropic night
    Rushes the funnelled air;
Our heads expand and fall in;
    Our hearts thump huge as despair.

"'Tis we make the bright hot blood
    Of this throbbing inanimate thing;
And our life is no less the fuel
    Than the coal we shovel and fling.

"And lest of this we be proud
    Or anything but meek,
We are well cursed and paid -
    Ten shillings a week!"

Round, round, round in its tunnel
    The shaft turns pitiless strong,
While lost souls cry out in the darkness:
    "How long, O Lord, how long?"

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

A Death At Sea. (Coral Sea, Australia.)

I.


Dead in the sheep-pen he lies,
    Wrapped in an old brown sail.
The smiling blue sea and the skies
    Know not sorrow nor wail.

Dragged up out of the hold,
    Dead on his last way home,
Worn-out, wizened, a Chinee old, -
    O he is safe - at home!

Brother, I stand not as these
    Staring upon you here.
One of earth's patient toilers at peace
    I see, I revere!


II.


In the warm cloudy night we go
    From the motionless ship;
Our lanterns feebly glow;
    Our oars drop and drip.

We land on the thin pale beach,
    The coral isle's round us;
A glade of driven sand we reach;
    Our burial ground's found us.

There we dig him a grave, jesting;
    We know not hi...

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

The Fisherman. (Mindanao, Philippines.)

In the dark waveless sea,
    Deep blue under deep blue,
The fisher drifts by on the tide
    In his small pole-balanced canoe.

Above him the cloud-clapped hills
    Crown the dense jungly sweeps;
The cocoa-nut groves hedge round
    The hut where the beach-wave sleeps.

Is it not better so
    To be as this savage is,
Than to live the wage-slave's life
    Of hopeless agonies?

Francis William Lauderdale Adams

To Henry George In America.

Not for the thought that burns on keen and clear,
    Heat that the heat has turned from red to white,
    The passion of the lone remembering night
One with the patience day must see and hear -
Not for the shafts the lying foemen fear,
    Shot from the soul's intense self-centring light -
    But for the heart of love divine and bright,
We praise you, worker, thinker, poet, seer!
Man of the People, - faithful in all parts,
    The veins' last drop, the brain's last flickering dole,
    You on whose forehead beams the aureole
That hope and "certain hope" alone imparts -
    Us have you given your perfect heart and soul;
Wherefore receive as yours our souls and hearts!

Francis William Lauderdale Adams