More than the soul of ancient song is given To thee, O poet of to-day! -- thy dower Comes, from a higher than Olympian heaven, In holier beauty and in larger power. To thee Humanity, her woes revealing, Would all her griefs and ancient wrongs rehearse; Would make thy song the voice of her appending, And sob her mighty sorrows through thy verse. While in her season of great darkness sharing, Hail thou the coming of each promise-star Which climbs the midnight of her long despairing, And watch for morning o'er the hills afar. Wherever Truth her holy warfare wages, Or freedom pines, there let thy voice be heard; Sound like a prophet-warning down the ages The human utterance of God's living word. But bring not thou the battle's stormy chorus, The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight, Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us Nor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night. O, let thy lays prolong that angel-singing, Girdling with music the Redeemer's star, And breathe God's peace, to earth "glad tidings" bringing From the near heavens, of old so dim and far! |