Gerald Massey (1828-1907)
“Cry of the Unemployed” (1864)
Reading Questions
- Why and how does it matter that we have a working-class writer speaking to both middle- and working-class audiences with this work?
- The poem’s refrain–“God of the wretched, hear my prayer! I would that I were dead!”–raises two questions:
- Is the “God of the wretched” somehow different from “God”? different from “God of all”?
- Where else have we heard this type of refrain, the idea that some would welcome death to escape life in this particular Britain?
- What kind of natural world does this poem present? Why is that significant?
- Lines 21-23 present a particular kind of gendered, familial failure. Why and how is this failure significant?
- What commentary does the poem offer about the act of writing poetry?
Audio Recording of “The Cry of the Unemployed” in context of Lancashire Cotton Famine (1861-65) with link to Background Information
Background Information on the Lancashire Cotton Famine: https://www.historic-uk.com/HistoryUK/HistoryofEngland/Lancashire-Cotton-Famine/
Tis’ hard! tis’ hard! to wander on through this bright world of ours,—
Beneath a sky of smiling blue,—on velvet paths of flowers:
With music in the woods, as there were nought but joyaunce known,
Or angels walkt earth’s solitudes:—and yet with want to groan,
To see no beauty in the stars, nor in God’s radiant smile;
To wail and wander misery-cursed! willing, but cannot toil!
There’s burning sickness at my heart: I sink down famished:
God of the wretched, hear my prayer! I would that I were dead!
Heaven droppeth down with manna still in many a golden shower,
And feeds the leaves with fragrant breath, with silver dew, the flower: 10
There’s honeyed fruit for bee and bird, with bloom laughs out the tree;
There’s food for all God’s happy things; but none gives food to me.
Earth decked with Plenty’s garland-crown, smiles on my aching eye;
The purse-proud, swathed in luxury, disdainful pass me by:
I’ve eager hands—I’ve earnest heart—but may not work for bread;
God of the wretched, hear my prayer! I would that I were dead!
Gold art thou not a blessed thing? A charm above all other,
To shut up hearts to nature’s cry, when brother pleads with brother!
Hast thou a music sweeter than the voice of loving kindness?
No, curse thee, thou’rt a mist twixt God and men in outer blindness! 20
“Father, come back!” My children cry! Their voices once so sweet,
Now quiver-lance-like, in my bleeding heart! I cannot meet!
The looks that make the brain go mad, of dear ones asking bread!
God of the wretched hear my prayer! I would that I were dead!
Lord, what right have the poor to wed? Love’s for the gilded great!
Are they not formed of nobler clay who dine off golden plate?
‘Tis the worst curse of poverty to have a feeling heart:
Why can I not, with iron grasp, thrust out the tender part?
I cannot slave in yon Bastile! Ah, no! ’twere bitterer pain—
I’d wear the pauper’s iron within, than clank the convict’s chain! 30
To work but cannot—starve, I may—but will not beg for bread:
God of the wretched, hear my prayer! I would that I were dead!
