Democracy

BEARER of Freedom's holy light,Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod,The foe of all which pains the sight,Or wounds the generous ear of God!

Beautiful yet thy temples rise,Though there profaning gifts are thrown;And fires unkindled of the skiesAre glaring round thy altar-stone.

Still sacred, though thy name be breathedBy those whose hearts thy truth deride;And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathedAround the haughty brows of Pride.

Oh, ideal of my boyhood's time!The faith in which my father stood,Even when the sons of Lust and CrimeHad stained thy peaceful courts with blood!

Still to those courts my footsteps turn,For through the mists which darken there,I see the flame of Freedom burn,--The Kebla of the patriot's prayer!

The generous feeling, pure and warm,Which owns the right of all divine;The pitying heart, the helping arm,The prompt self-sacrifice, are thine.

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye,How fade the lines of caste and birth!How equal in their suffering lieThe groaning multitudes of earth!

Still to a stricken brother true,Whatever clime hath nurtured him;As stooped to heal the wounded JewThe worshipper of Gerizim.

By misery unrepelled, unawedBy pomp or power, thou seest a ManIn prince or peasant, slave or lord,Pale priest, or swarthy artisan.

Through all disguise, form, place, or name,Beneath the flaunting robes of sin,Through poverty and squalid shame,Thou lookest on the man within.

On man, as man, retaining yet,Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim,The crown upon his forehead set,The immortal gift of God to him.

And there is reverence in thy look;For that frail form which mortals wearThe Spirit of the Holiest took,And veiled His perfect brightness there.

Not from the shallow babbling fountOf vain philosophy thou art;He who of old on Syria's MountThrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener's heart,

In holy words which cannot die,In thoughts which angels leaned to know,Proclaimed thy message from on high,Thy mission to a world of woe.

That voice's echo hath not died!From the blue lake of Galilee,And Tabor's lonely mountain-side,It calls a struggling world to thee.

Thy name and watchword o'er this landI hear in every breeze that stirs,And round a thousand altars standThy banded party worshippers.

Not, to these altars of a day,At party's call, my gift I bring;But on thy olden shrine I layA freeman's dearest offering.

The voiceless utterance of his will,--His pledge to Freedom and to Truth,That manhood's heart remembers stillThe homage of his generous youth.