Classic Poem

Room in my country, Room!
Room on her ample breast
For the willing hand to work,
And the weary heart to rest;
For all who flee from the tyranny
Of the " Old World " to the West!

Though under another sun
His childhood saw the sky,
Though under another sod
His father's ashes lie —
A deeper dust on his broken trust
And his darkened memory.

The home our Fathers built
They builded wide and tall,
With many a smiling portal
And never a frowning wall,
And strong without and warm throughout,
And plenty of room for all.

Room in her broad green fields,
Room in her dusky mines,
Where the gliding coulter gleams,
Where the reaper's sickle shines,
Under the eaves of his own green leaves,
Under his own bright vines!

Under his own bright vines!
And none to say him nay!
Room for his hands to rise,
And his fetters to fall away;
Oh! brothers, room for his heart to bloom,
Room for his soul to pray!

To the sufferer over the sea,
To the wanderer at the gate,
To the loftiest in degree,
To the lowliest in estate,
One land alone on the broad earth's zone
Can dare to be truly great!

Dread ye the darkened strength
Of the stranger sad and lone,
Should his soul awake at length
From the sleep his sires have known?
Trust in the God that gave
This green land to your own!
'Tis His to grace, in its fitting place,
The clay as well as the stone.

Though still to the wasted hands
The iron's canker clings,
Though still in his withered heart
The rankling iron wrings;
The oak shall know its time to grow —
The eagle shall find his wings.

Aye! numberless as the sands,
And fetterless as the foam,
'Tis the hand of Heaven that sends —
In God's name let them come!
To a common share of Heaven's own air —
To a Hope as well as a Home.