Many's the man who's fitted to lead Progression's van and empires build, Yet dribbles his time with things that impede And obstruct the things which might be fulfilled If he were but bold; Many's the place which harbors the man Who's fit to be king, yet by reason of doubt Contented remains and does what he can In some petty place with peasants about, And rusts and grows old. Many's the man whose parish has claimed All of his might while the world waits and waits For someone like him who can be inflamed With zeal for its needs and whose strength animates The dull, sluggish mass; Many's the place, like Bethlehem small, Least in world-fame, yet is destined to bring From out of its midst a Ruler of all, Crowned and acclaimed a Saviour and King, Too great for one class. Many's the man and many's the place That needs to be roused to the things they can be; Many's the land and many's the race That offers a field for activity When once they awake; If men will but think on empires grand Instead of on parishes petty and small, Their minds will mature and their souls will expand, And they will be ready to answer the call The Future shall make! |