Lucifers Poetry

Poetry from the Lucifer the Light Bearer newspaper

Free Speech – Charles Mackay, 1907
from the Lucifer the Light Bearer newspaper

“All conviction should be valiant;
Tell thy truth, if truth it be,
Never seek to stem its current;
Thoughts, like rivers, find the sea;
It will fit the widening circle
Of Eternal Verity.

Speak thy thought if thou believ’st it,
Let it jostle whom it may,
E’en although the foolish scorn it,
Or the obstinate gainsay;
Every seed that grows tomorrow
Lies beneath the clod today.

If our sires, the noble hearted,
Pioneers of things to come,
Had, like some, been weak and timid,
Traitors to themselves, and dumb,
Where would be our present knowledge?
Where the hoped Millennium?

Where would be triumphant Science,
Searching with her fearless eyes,
Through the infinite creation,
For the soul that underlies—
Soul of Beauty, soul of Goodness,
Wisdom of the earth and skies?

Where would be all great inventions,
Each from bygone fancies born,
Issued first in doubt and darkness,
Launched ’mid apathy and scorn?

How could noontime ever light us
But for dawning of the morn?
Where would be our free opinion,
Where the right to speak at all,
If our sires, like some mistrustful,
Had been deaf to duty’s call,
And concealed the thoughts within them,
Lying down for fear to fall?

Though an honest thought, outspoken,
Lead thee into chains or death—
What is life compared with virtue?
Shalt thou not survive their breath!
Hark! the future age invites thee!
Listen! tremble, what it saith!

It demands thy thought in justice,
Debt, not tribute of the free;
Have not ages long departed
Groaned, and toiled, and bled for thee?
If the Past have lent thee wisdom,
Pay it to Futurity.”

The Dawn of Freethought – Lucifer, the Light Bearer, 1885

“A glorious day at length is breaking,
When Freethought shall triumphant reign;
The world from slumber is awaking,
In error ne’er to sleep again.

The gloomy night of Superstition
Flies before the approaching day;
Religious fraud and imposition
Can our minde no longer sway.

As the hazy mists of morning
Fly before the sun’s bright beams,
So let Truth, our path adorning,
Scatter all those foolish dreams.

Though long by priestly lore confounded,
Let us seek a better way.
And with joy and peace surrounded,
Hail with triumph Freedom’s day.”

“Live and love and take and give.
And laugh and fight and sigh;
For, it’s all there is of life to live,
And all of death to die.”
– Unknown

THE POOR MAN’S SOLILOQUY – Ella Stevens, 1889
– Lucifer the Light Bearer

“My Native Land!” Too well I know,
Where’er thy royal rivers flow,
From mountainside to shores of sea,
Thy proud flag floats, but not for me,
No, not for me.

Bright are the harbor lights, and there,
For leagues around on lambent air,
The brightest of them all aspires
To light the world with freedom’s fires.
O, Liberty!

Thou hast a name bedecked with stars,
But cruel wrong and prison bars
Give thee the lie; while sons of men
Toil on in poverty, and then
Lie down to die.

And in their “Native Land” find rest
In common ground, the law’s bequest.
No land in life, no land in death,
For shroud a rag, and not a breath
Of sympathy.

Columbia, gem of the sea,
America, home of the free:
Where gibbet casts its shadow drear,
And woman barters self, from sheer
Necessity.

And little children, pale and wan,
Mere mute machines, go plodding on,
Strangers to sunshine, field, and flowers,
Waifs in their “Native Land”—Ye Powers!
What mockery!

Men are no longer bought and sold
On auction blocks, for clinking gold;
But worse, in mills and mines and trade
Their very souls are crushed, to aid
Monopoly.

“My Native Land,” with all thy fame,
And wealth and beauty and fair name,
God knows I am not proud of thee,
And fain would blush, in penury,
To call thee free.
—Twentieth Century

The God Horror – Lara

The years rolled on o’er the god-cursed earth,
And creed succeeded creed;
Temples and altars passed away;
But never the priestly greed.

Olympus fell, and the gods of Rome
Had followed the gods of Greece.
Then Messiah came, and the sad earth hailed
The reign of the Prince of Peace.

Once more the rolling thunder wakes,
And the red-fringed clouds grow dark;
And a shriek of pain through the darkness breaks
From the lips of the Dying One.

The storm-fiend paused, and hushed the thunder clang,
And breathless silence fell o’er land and sea,
As through the gloom that cry despairing rang:
“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”

The night-clouds close—the pallid lips are mute,
And bowed the thorn-crowned head;
And hushed in heaven are harp and lute,
For, lo! a God is dead!

The night-clouds break—the thunder’s voice is still,
And quenched the lightning-gleam;
And o’er the summit of that hallowed hill
Streams the first morning beam.

The red sun rises from a sea of blood
Where the storm-wracks writhe and toss;
And westward far, o’er darkened field and flood,
Falls the SHADOW OF THE CHAOS.

Still lies the blight of that Shadow’s night
O’er the fairest fields of earth;
And from the gloom of the dead God’s tomb
Stalks forth the wraith of the cursed faith
That on Golgotha had birth.

O’er all our land that spectre Hand
Still holds the dripping knife;
Still hangs the sword o’er the festal board,
And the skeleton Guest, in his grave-clothes drest,
Dashes gall in the wine of life!

How long, how long, ye brave and strong,
Will ye cringe to a broken reed
Or kiss the rod of a dotard god
And the shackles of a creed?

Awake! arise! Lo! the captive cries
From the gloom of the prison cell;
And the blood and the tears of a thousand years
Are quenching the fires of hell!

Strive, man, in thy might, for the truth and the right,
Till the cross from the temple is hurled;
Till in the gleam of To-morrow’s beam
The white flag of the Truth is unfurled;
Till the oriflamme waves o’er the dead god’s graves,
And great Love is the Lord of the world!

Discontent
– Clara Davidson, 1897

A peasant lay on hospitable grass
To watch a silent cloud procession pass,
And bathe in tempered sunshine sifting down
In softened radiance over field and town.

A passing horseman drew his rein and said,
“Good man, where travel you, by fancy led?
’Tis noontide sun that warms your grassy bed,
And yet I fear me you remain unfed.”

“I feed on wishes,” thoughtfully replied
The peasant. Then he smiled, and then he sighed.
“I’m tired of all the foolish gods I know;
I wish a greater-minded god would grow—
One who would touch my master’s heart to pay
To me, his laborer, more pence a day.
The earth is wide and green, the sky is fair,
And yet I find no mercy anywhere.”

“Do beaten schoolboys pray for other rods?
Pray not,” the horseman said, “a change of gods.
If gods are cruel, all the gods dethrone;
If masters rob you, mastership disown.
Wish not to be part-bound, but wholly free—
A god, a master of yourself to be.”

The Common Lot
– James Montgomery, Lucifer the Light Bear, 1889

Once in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man; and who was he?
Mortal, howe’er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown;
His name has perished from the earth,
This truth survives alone:

That joy, and grief, and hope, and fear
Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe—a smile, a tear!
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffered—but his pangs are o’er;
Enjoyed—but his delights are fled;
Had friends—his friends are now no more;
And foes—his foes are dead.

He loved; but whom he loved the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb:
O, she was fair! but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encountered all that troubles thee;
He was whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main,
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams o’er his eye,
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruin since the world began,
Of him afford no other trace
Than this—there lived a man!

Coward Hearts – J.L. Joynes, 1885
Transcribed from Lucifer the Light Bearer

And shall we blow the trumpets yet,
And shall we beat the rattling drum,
And cry to them that cannot hear,
And call to them that will not come,
And pipe to those who do not dance,
And mourn with them that will not weep,
And shout our battle cry to those
Who only fold their hands and sleep?

The cowards!—though our only help
Be brandished in our own right hand,
And though our lamp of hope be dim,
And far away our promised land,
And though our hosts be hard beset,
And though our hearts be sore afraid,
We will not pray to them for help,
We will not ask of them for aid.

Nay, never—we will march alone
To conquer or, if need be, die.
We want no traitor hearts like theirs
To rally round our battle cry;
We need no faint applause from them,
No cheer from all the cringing crowd,
When, if the cowards held their peace,
The very stones would cry aloud.

But if, despite of desperate odds,
We turn in triumph home at last,
With all the painful struggle done
And all the peril overpast,
Then will the faint-heart knaves be first
With triumph songs our steps to greet,
And deafen us with shouts of praise,
And lick the dust from off our feet.

And shall we let them share the fruits
Of victories so hardly won,
Or take a stern revenge at last
For all the harm their sloth has done?
Nay, surely shame and sharp remorse
Are worse than any deeded smart;
We pity them! ’Tis curse enough
To be such coward slaves at heart!

A HYMN MODERN – Ogilvie Mitchell, 9/10/1891

Earth to earth, and dust to dust,
From the centre to the crust.
Land is bartered, bought, and sold
For the cursed greed of gold—
Gold which earth itself doth hold.

Earth to earth, and dust to dust—
Selfish appetite and lust
Stole the earth when earth was young,
On its face their burdens flung,
Reft the virtue that had sprung.

Earth to earth, and dust to dust—
Down their throats the lie we thrust,
When the idlers, vaunting, say
That we are of other clay,
Made of baser earth than they.

Earth to earth, and dust to dust—
Mother Earth, to us you must
Come, for we have waited long
Through the centuries of wrong—
Now the weak are growing strong.

Earth to earth, and dust to dust—
Rise we in our fierce disgust,
Shout we loud with scorn and mirth:
“Earth is ours, if we be earth—
Ours in death, and ours from birth!”

GENERATION – Elizabeth Watson 9/10/1891

“The world is going wrong,” you say,
“And has been, ever since creation!
Come, let us kneel to God, and pray
For all mankind’s regeneration!”

Nay, nay, my friend, the world’s all right,
And God heeds not our supplication;
All that is needed is more light
Upon the law of GENERATION.

This wondrous power to enshrine
In form of flesh the good or evil,
And with the parent life entwine
The attributes of god or devil!

A subtle, unsubstantial breath,
With kiss of love as consecration,
Leaps through the boundaries of death—
A thing of life, a soul creation.

Yet, like the source from whence it springs,
Be it Gehenna or Elysium,
Our secret thought it ever brings
Before our oft-astonished vision!

A moment’s hate may crystallize
Into defiance of all duty,
Or thought from love’s sweet paradise
Become a never-failing beauty.

We sow our passions, rank and wild,
Amid the poor soul’s strong delusions,
And then expect a holy child
As fruitage of our life’s confusions!

Men sacrifice their souls to sense
And trample on the rights of woman,
Then make this plea in self-defense:
“But sure, you know, all men are human.”

And women, weak, irresolute,
Allow the awful desecration
Of that which love should e’er transmute
Into a blessed consecration.

And from the fountains, so defiled,
Flows life’s dark stream of troubled waters,
The Christ crushed out of every child,
While sin claims all earth’s sons and daughters.

And thus we go from bad to worse,
Few hoping for amelioration,
While preachers prate of the “primal curse”
And paint the scenes of soul-damnation.

Look to the end – Clinton Loveridge, 1899

By the light of history’s pages,
Travel back the past dead ages;
Ever find the tragic story telling just the same:
Man in bloodiest war engages;
Tortures, burns, and kills the sages;
Ever stained with blood and crime, and lust of power and fame.

Who can answer, who can say
Man is wiser now, today,
Than when Egypt’s Pharaohs lived and reigned on earth?
Does the State’s or Church’s sway
Offer any nobler way?—
Are not countless millions doomed to wretchedness from birth?

The world is ruled by millionaires;
The cross of Christ no message bears—
Throws but a blighting shadow everywhere o’er life;
The rulers claim all that is theirs,
The toiler’s harvest—all but the tares!—
Where do history’s pages show base robbery more rife?

Lust of gold, of power athirst,
This man’s history from the first—
Ever since the written record was begun on stone or skin;
Ever making gods the worst,
Reflect all his deeds accursed;
Showing by his worshipped gods how poor man’s life has been.

High the towers and steeples rise
Of churches mocking fairest skies—
But within does right word spoken ever greet the ear?
And with every hour that flies
The church all freedom e’er denies—
The cross-crowned church holds jangling priest, no prophet, poet, seer.

Ever chained by superstition;
Ever slaves to old tradition,—
So the toilers of the world build here on earth their hells;
Seemingly without volition,
Witless in self-wrought perdition—
O, for this sad inanition be there word or spell!

Unnumbered slaves of every nation;
Old archetype lies their adoration;
It would not seem a grievous wrong their choice to dwell in hell—
But that the coming generation
May wallow in the same stagnation;
They suicide as well as ring the little children’s knell.

Rhymes for the Times – Elmina Slenkeb, 1881
Published in the predecessor to Lucifer

“Oh, believe or be damned?” is what Christians all teach;
They alone have the truth and God’s holy word preach.
They are saved from all sins by prayer, faith, and grace;
At the right hand of God they have chosen their place.
They work for His glory, seek from hell souls to save;
All else they deem worthless on this side of the grave.
Thus labor is wasted, precious time thrown away,
On dreams that are baseless, on myths worn and gray.

But the “Infidel,” true, firm, and loyal, doth stand
On a plane that is higher, more noble and grand.
He follows the spirit and listens to its teachings,
Caring only for the right, despising the preachings
Of pious ones holy, who talk, with long faces,
Of high heavens, deep hells, and like mythical places;
Despising and hating pure joys and sweet pleasures,
Happy homes here on earth, overflowing with treasures
Of blissful contentment and peace, hope, and love,
Sacrificing them all for air-castles above,

Where, with wings at their backs and crowned like a king,
For ages and ages hosannas they’ll sing;
Nor pity the billions who, in hell’s deep abyss,
Suffer anguish and torment in sight of their bliss.

The Man Born Blind – Ambrose Bierce, 1888

A man born blind received his sight
By a painful operation;
And these are the things he saw in the light
Of an infant observation.

He saw a merchant, rich and wise,
And greatly, too, respected,
Who looked, to those imperfect eyes,
Like a swindler undetected.

He saw a patriot address
A noisy public meeting,
And said: “Why, that’s a calf, I guess,
And for the teat is bleating.”

A doctor stood beside a bed
And shook his head quite sadly:
“O see that foul assassin!” said
The man who saw so badly.

He saw a lawyer pleading for
A thief whom they’d been jailing,
And said: “That’s an accomplice, or
My sight’s already failing.”

Upon the bench a justice sat,
With nothing to restrain him;
“’Tis strange,” said the observer, “that
They ventured to unchain him.”

He saw a parson pound the Book
As ’twere an erring brother;
“He serves Abaddon and has a look
As if he were another.”

With theologic works supplied,
He saw that self-same preacher:
“A burglar with his kit,” he cried,
“To rob a fellow creature.”

An honest farmer next he saw
Sell produce in a village,
And said: “What! what! is there no law
To punish men for pillage?”

A dame, tall, fair, and stately, passed,
Who many charms united;
He thanked his stars that his lot was cast
Where sepulchers were whited.

He saw in splendorous attire
Some “Grand Supreme Commander”;
“A peacock’s plumes I don’t admire,”
He swore, “upon a gander.”

He saw a soldier, stiff and stern,
“Full of strange oaths” and toddy,
But was unable to discern
A wound upon his body.

Twenty square leagues of rolling ground
To one great man belonging
Looked like one little grassy mound
With worms beneath it thronging.

A palace’s well-carven stones,
Where Dives dwelt contented,
Seemed built throughout of human bones
With human blood cemented.

He watched the yellow, shining thread
A silkworm was a-spinning:
“That creature’s coining gold,” he said,
“To pay some girl for sinning.”

His eyes were so untrained and dim,
All politics, religions,
Arts, sciences appeared to him
Machines for plucking pigeons.

And so he drew his final breath,
And thought he saw with sorrow
Some persons weeping for his death
Who’d be all smiles tomorrow.

The Perfect State – Robert Buchanan, 12/26/1901

Where is the perfect state,
Early most blest, and late
Perfect and bright?
’Tis where no palace stands,
Trembling on shifting sands,
Morning and night.

’Tis where the soil is free,
Where, far as eye can see,
Scattered o’er hill and lane,
Homesteads abound;
Where clean and broad and sweet,
Market and square, lane and street,
Belted by leagues of wheat,
Cities are found.

Where is the perfect state,
Early most blest, and late
Gentle and good?
’Tis where no lives are seen
Huddling in lanes unclean,
Crying for food;
’Tis where the home is pure,
’Tis where the bread is sure,
’Tis where the wants are fewer,
And each want fed;
Where plenty and peace abide,
Where health dwells, heavenly-eyed,
Where in nooks beautified
Slumber the dead.

Where is the perfect state,
Unvexed by wrath and hate,
Quiet and just?
Where to no form or creed
Fettered are thought and deed,
Reason and trust?
’Tis where the great free mart
Broadens, while from its heart
Forth the great ships depart,
Blown by the wind;
’Tis where the wise men’s eyes,
Fixed on the earth and skies,
Seeking for signs, devise
Good for mankind.

Cage Life – Clara D. Davidson, 11/27/1891

Cosily Frank sat rocking in his swing,
With sleepy head half-turned to waiting wing.
My step aroused him: slowly, dreamily,
He moved his drowsy eyes to look at me.

“You unwise bird,” I said, “you eat and sing,
And eat again, and sleep, and drink, and swing—
Why not cry out, demand your liberty?
If you were mine, Frank, I would make you free.”

I lost myself in sleep; in dreams I saw
The bars that held him prisoner withdraw,
And forth he sprang, on glad, uncertain wing:
Wind-tossed, he found a tree and paused to sing.

I thought the choirs of heaven were in his throat,
Such exultation gladdened every note.
And then a storm-cloud westward darkened all.

“Come, seek,” I cried, “the safety of your nest!
You have no skill to cope with Nature’s rage;
Madness was mine to free you from the cage.”

He turned to face the storm with looks that said:
“Would it so greatly matter to be dead?
I am not fit to cope with Nature’s rage,
But better death than in a living cage.”

High Noon – Ella Wheeler, 1895

Time’s finger on the dial of my life
Points to high noon. And yet the half-spent day
Leaves less than half remaining; for the dark,
Bleak shadows of the grave engulf the end.

To those who burn the candle to the stick,
The sputtering socket yields but little light.
Long life is sadder than an early death.

We cannot count on raveled threads of age
Whereof to weave a fabric; we must use
The warp and woof the ready present yields,
And toil while daylight lasts.

When I bethink
How brief the past—the future, still more brief—
Calls on to action, action! Not for me
Is time for retrospection or for dreams;
Not time for self-laudation or remorse.

Have I done nobly? Then I must not let
Dead yesterday shame unborn tomorrow.
Have I done wrong? Well, let the bitter taste
Of fruit that turned to ashes on my lips
Be my reminder in temptation’s hour,
And keep me silent when I would condemn.

Sometimes it takes the acid of a sin
To cleanse the clouded windows of our souls
So pity may shine through them.

Looking back,
My faults and errors seem but stepping-stones
That led the way to knowledge of the truth
And make me value virtue. Sorrows shine
In rainbow colors o’er the gulf of years
Where lie forgotten pleasures.