Classic Poem

Light from a better land!
Fire from a burning brand!
Though in this cold, sepulchral clime,
Chained to an unambitious time,
Thou slowly moulderest;
Yet cheer that great and lowly heart,
Prophetic eye and sovereign part!
And be thy fortune greatly blest,
And by some greater gods confest,
With a sublimer rest!

Strike on, nor still thy golden lyre,
That sparkles with Olympian fire!
And be thy word the soul's desire
Of this unthinking land!
Nor shall thy voyage of glory fail;
Its sea thou sweepest—set thy sail!
Though fiercely rave the heaviest gale,
It shall not swerve thy hand.

Born for a fate whose secret none
Hath looked upon beneath Earth's sun—
Child of the High, the Only One!
Thy glories sleep secure!

On Heaven's coast thy mounting wave
Shall dash beyond the unknown grave,
And cast its spray to warn and save
Some other barks that moor.