Classic Poem

Pause not, gentle Maiden, now!
Awful hands have marked thy brow;
And, in lonely hours of prayer,
'Mid the leafy forest air,
Boundless Powers, Eternal eyes,
Looks that made old prophets wise,
Have inspired thy solitude
With a rapt, heroic mood,
And have taught thy humble weakness
All the strength that dwells in meekness;
And with how devouring sway,
Right, oppressed by long delay,
Bursts out in a judgment-day.
Thus thy heart is high and strong,
Swelling like cherubic song,
For thou art so low and small,
It must be the Lord of All
Who can thus a world appal.
Race and country, daily speech,
That makes each man dear to each,
Friends and home, and love of mother,
Grandsire's grave, and slaughtered brother,
Fields familiar, native sky,
Voices these that on thee cry;
Winds pursue with vocal might,
Stars will not be dumb by night,
And the dry leaf on the ground
Has a tongue of pealing sound,
Loud from God commanding thee,
Go, and set thy nation free!