Classic Poem

'Tis said that tracts of sea-roadway
And earth supremacy,
Are claimed by those who rule and sway
By right of heraldry.

But kings are men, despite their role,
And blind, or they would see
That mortal man cannot control
An inch of land or sea.

When Boanerges wakes the waves,
And blue bluffs rise and roll
O'er sinking ships and soundless graves,
Who takes the awful toll?

Where is the wealth that erstwhile filled
Th' Armadas of old Spain?
Did Philip with the tempest stilled
Demand it back again?

Or when Vesuvius' red hell-broth
Hurled blazing to the sea,
Did Titus with his troops go forth
To claim for Pompeii?

No! Mother-earth reclaims her own
For simple Nature's needs;
And dust of kings is sometimes thrown
To fertilise the weeds.

And time will take at her desire,
From off its sculptured stand,
The colonnaded dome or spire,
To make the desert sand.

I've threshed it out and thought it through
From every plain and plan,
To find that man can but subdue
His hapless brother-man.

But, oh! the soul! th' immortal soul,
Crushed by a tyrant's whim.
When freed at length from greed's control,
Shall it not speak for him?