Classic Poem

I.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded.

In no stately structures skilled,
What the temple we would build?
Now the massive kiln is risen —
Call it palace — call it prison;
View it well: from end to end
Narrow corridors extend, —
Long, and dark, and smothered aisles: —
Choke its earthly vaults with piles
Of the resinous yellow pine;
Now thrust in the fettered fire —
Hearken! how he stamps with ire,
Treading out the pitchy wine;
Wrought anon to wilder spells
Hear him shout his loud alarms;
See him thrust his glowing arms
Through the windows of his cells.

But his chains at last shall sever;
Slavery lives not for ever;
And the thickest prison wall
Into ruin yet must fall;
Whatsoever falls away
Springeth up again, they say;
Then, when this shall break asunder
And the fire be freed from under,
Tell us what imperial thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a stately building,
Airy dome and columned walls;
Mottoes writ in richest gilding
Blazing through its pillared halls.

In those chambers, stern and dreaded,
They, the mighty ones, shall stand;
There shall sit the hoary-headed
Old defenders of the land.

There shall mighty words be spoken,
Which shall thrill a wondering world;
Then shall ancient bonds be broken,
And new banners be unfurled.

But anon those glorious uses
In these chambers shall lie dead,
And the world's antique abuses,
Hydra-headed, rise instead.

But this wrong not long shall linger —
The old capitol must fall;
For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall!

II.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded —
Till the heavy walls be risen,
And the fire is in his prison:
But when break the walls asunder,
And the fire is freed from under,
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a church whose steeple
To the heavens shall aspire;
And shall come the mighty people
To the music of the choir.

On the infant, robed in whiteness,
Shall baptismal waters fall,
While the child's angelic brightness
Sheds a halo over all.

There shall stand enwreathed in marriage
Forms that tremble — hearts that thrill —
To the door Death's sable carriage
Shall bring forms and hearts grown still!

Decked in garments richly glistening,
Rustling wealth shall walk the aisle;
And the poor without stand listening,
Praying in their hearts the while.

There the veteran shall come weekly
With his cane, oppressed and poor,
'Mid the horses standing meekly,
Gazing through the open door.

But these wrongs not long shall linger —
The presumptuous pile must fall;
For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall!

III.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground;
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded —
Say again what stately thing
From the ruin shall upspring?

Not the hall with columned chambers,
Starred with words of liberty,
Where the freedom-canting members
Feel no impulse of the free;

Not the pile where souls in error
Hear the words, " Go, sin no more! "
But a dusky thing of terror,
With its cells and grated door.

To its inmates each to-morrow
Shall bring in no tide of joy.
Born in darkness and in sorrow
There shall stand the fated boy.

With a grief too loud to smother,
With a throbbing, burning head —
There shall groan some desperate mother,
Nor deny the stolen bread!

There the veteran, a poor debtor,
Marked with honourable scars,
Listening to some clanking fetter,
Shall gaze idly through the bars:

Shall gaze idly, not demurring,
Though with thick oppression bowed;
While the many, doubly erring,
Shall walk honoured through the crowd.

Yet these wrongs not long shall linger —
The benighted pile must fall;
For, behold! the fiery finger
Flames along the fated wall!

IV.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground;
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded —
Till the heavy walls be risen
And the fire is in his prison.
Capitol, and church, and jail,
Like our kiln at last shall fail;
Every shape of earth shall fade;
But the Heavenly Temple made
For the sorely tried and pure,
With its Builder shall endure!