The Chicago Martyrs by John P. Altgeld

34
ADDRESS OF GEORGE ENGEL.
bombs""':and that knowiedge he possesses. I do not wisb.'for State's Attorney·
Grinnell and his assistant, Furthman, the fate of the chief of police Rumpfi'.
, If Anarchism could be rooted out, it would have been accomplished lo~g ,
ago in other countries. On the night on which the first bomb in this country.
was thrown, I was in my apartments at home. I knew nothing of the conspiracy
which the ·State's attorney pretends to'have discovered.·
It- is true I am acquainted with several of my fellow·defendants; with
most ofthem, however, but slightly, through seeing them at meetings, and
hearing them speak. Nor do I deny, that I, too, have spoken at meetings,
saying that, if every workingman had a bomb in bis pocket, capitalistic rule
would soon come to an end. . ,
That is my opinion, and my wish; it became my conviction, whtm I discovered
the wickedness of the capitalistic conditions of tile day. .
When hundreds of workingmen have been destroyed in mines in conse- .
quence of faulty preparations, for the repairing of which the owners were too
stingy, the capitalistic papers have scarcely noticed it. See with what satisfaction
and cruelty they make their report, when here and there workingmen
have been fired upon, while striking for a few cents' increase in tpeir wages,
that they mIght earn only a scanty subsistence.
'
, Can anyone feel respect for a government that accords rights only to the
privileged classes and none to the workers? We have seen but recently how
the coal barons combined to form a conspiracy to raise the price of coal, while
at the same time reducing the already low wages of their men. Are they
accused of conspiracy on that account? But when workingmen dare ask an
increase in their wages, the lIIilitia and the police are sent out to shoot them
down.
For such a government as this I can feel no respect, and will combat it,
despite its power, despite it!! police, despite its spies.
I hate and combat, not the individual capitalist, but the system that
gives him those privileges. My greatest wish is that workingmen may recognIze
who· are their friends and who are their enemies.
As to my conviction, brought about as it was, through capitalistic influence,
I have not one word to say.
Address 01:" SSIlluel Fielden.
AND tho' ye caught your noble prey within your hangman;s sordid thrall;
And tho' your captive was lead forth beneath your city's rampart wall;
And tho' the grass Iles o'er her green. wbere at the morning's early red
The peasa.nt girl brings funeral wreaths-I tell you still-she is not dead!
And tho' from off the lofty brow ye cut the ringlets flowing long,
And tho' ye've mated her amid the thieves' and murderers' hideous throng,
And tho' ye gave her felon fare-bade felon garb her livery be,
And tho' ye set the oakum task-I tell you all-she still is free!
And tho' compelled to banishment, ye bunt her down thro' endless lands;
And tho' sbe seeks a foreign hearth, and silent 'mid its ashes stands;
And tho'. she bathes her wounded feet where foreign streams seek foreign seas;
Yet-yet-she never more will hang her harp on Babel's willow trees!
Ah, no! she strikes it very strong, and bids their loud defiance swell,
And as she marked yonr scaflold erst, she mocks your banishment as well.
She sings a song that starts you up astounded from your slumbrous seats,
Until your heart-your craven heart-yonr traitor heart-with terror beats!
No song of plafnt, no song of sighs for those who perished unsubdued.
Nor yet a song of irony at wrongs fantastic interlude-
The beggar's opera that ye try to drag out thro' its lingering scenes.
Tho' moth,eaten tbe purple be that decks your tiusel kings and queens.
Oh, no! the song those waters hear is not of sorrow, nor dismay-
'Tis triumph song-victorious song-the preans of the iuture's day-;­
l'he future-distant now no more-her prophet voice is sounding free.
As well as once your Godhead spake: I was, I am, and I will be!
Will be-and lead the nation on the last of all your hosts to meet,
And on your necks, your heads, your crowns, I'll plant my strong, resistless feet!
Avenger, Liberator, Judge-red battles on my pathway hurled,
I stretch forth my almighty arm, till it revtvilies the world.
You see me only In your cells; ye see me only in the grave;
Ye see me only wandering lone, beside the exile's sullen wave­
Ye fools! Do I not live Where ye have tried to pierce in vain?
Rests not a nook for me to dwell in every heart and every brain?
In every brow that boldly thinks, erect with manhood's honest pride­
Does not each bosom shelter me that beats with honor's generous tide?
Not every workshop, brooding woe'! not every hut that harbors grief?
Ha! Am I not the Breath of Life, that pants and struggles for relief?
'Tis therefore I will be-and lead the people yet your hosts to meet,
And on your necks, your heads, your crowns, will plant my strong, resistless feet!
It is no boast-it is no threat-thus history's iron law decrees-
The day grow,s hot, oh, Babylon I 'Tis cool beneath thy willow trees!
That ill a piece of poetry written by Freiligrath, called "Revolution."
Freiligrath is a German writer, and every intelligent German in the civilized
world has tbat piece of poetry upon his book-shelves"
Revolution-it is a crime in what is sometimes called the foremost civilized
country in the world, to be a Revolutionist, and yet all those who can
r ad the works of Freilij:trath have read that poem with rapture. It makes a
,