Classic Poem

Mother of Riddles, dark desperate vivid
Crowned with a longing that burns as a star
Not on my lips be the cry of the thankless
Weak, discontented, thy mission to mar.

High in thine hand is the lamp of the ages,
Linked at thy side are the past and unborn,
Thou art the now and God's shame be upon us
Black: if we fail thee or leave thee forlorn.

Cowards may flout thee, sad mother of labours,
Tremblers shrink back to the peace of the dead
Yet shall each age have its rear and its vanguard
Some that have lingered and some that have led.

Gone is the hour of earth's forces primeval
Bent o'er the cradle where man's race began
Now riseth, Science with stars and with Thunders
Binding the earth with the marvel of man.

Doubters may wail or a law that is rusted
Faith in the spectres that fade and that flee
May thy great master, worn toilers and homeward
Grant to us faith in ourselves and in thee.

Faith in our destiny; faith in our children
Not in a book, or a church or a caste
Faith, that despite all the growling of greybeards,
God does not sulk in the tombs of the past.

Shall we grow weak with the dream of a childhood
Realms of a memory: flowers of a grave.
While through the tangle of ages for ever
God sets a sword in the hands of the brave.