Classic Poem

Over the land where the roses lie
Warm in the sunny gush;
Over the ocean where wave and sky
Melt in the morning flush;
Over prairie and dale and hill,
Meadow and mountain-side,
Cometh a murmur faint and shrill,
That stirs the blood with a mighty thrill,
Like the swell of a heaving tide.

It tells of a throne that is toppling down
With its weight of evil deeds,
Of a tyrant struggling to save his crown,
And a million widows' weeds.
Of a breath that has filled the peaceful world
With legions of armed men,
Of martial music, and flags unfurled,
And countless cohorts together hurled,
And many a corpse-lined glen.

More than this in its mystic tone
We lack the power to trace,
But we peer and strain in the shadows lone
That shroud the future's face.
And one proclaims, " 'Tis the mighty blast
Of Armageddon abroad:
The days draw nigh when creation vast
Shall melt and vanish, to be recast
Pure by the hand of God. "

And another cries, " Lo! the time is near
When man shall be truly free,
When rulers shall yield in helpless fear,
And nations shall cease to be,
And the mighty human brotherhood
Shall govern the earth alone. "
We only know that the word holds good
That growth, once started, is ne'er withstood,
That the wrong is a temple of gilded wood,
And the right is a granite throne.