午夜时分，在我们的小镇上，一个哀悼的人在旧法院附近走来走去，不肯歇息，这是一件不祥的大事。或者在他的家园，或者在他的孩子们曾经玩耍的阴暗的院子里徘徊，或者穿过市场，在破旧的石头上徘徊，直到黎明的星星燃烧殆尽。一个古铜色、瘦削的男人!他那套古色古香的黑衣服，一顶著名的高礼帽，一条朴素的披肩，使他成为人们喜爱的古色古香的大人物，草原律师，我们大家的主人。他现在不能睡在山坡上了。他就在我们中间——像从前一样!而我们这些辗转反侧，久久睡不着的人，深吸一口气，惊起，看着他从门口走过。他低着头。他想到的是人和国王。是的，当病态的世界哭泣时，他怎能入睡? Too many peasants fight, they know not why, Too many homesteads in black terror weep. The sins of all the war-lords burn his heart. He sees the dreadnaughts scouring every main. He carries on his shawl-wrapped shoulders now The bitterness, the folly and the pain. He cannot rest until a spirit-dawn Shall come; -- the shining hope of Europe free; The league of sober folk, the Workers' Earth, Bringing long peace to Cornwall, Alp and Sea. It breaks his heart that kings must murder still, That all his hours of travail here for men Seem yet in vain. And who will bring white peace That he may sleep upon his hill again?