Classic Poem

There's another land and better,
We are told;
Where the slave shakes off his fetter,
And where worth is never debtor
Unto gold.

Thither often are we turning
Weary eyes;
And our heavy hearts are yearning,
Night and day are throbbing, burning
For its skies.

There that foolish superstition,
Pride of birth,
Finds its sudden demolition,
And our being's final mission
Is of worth.

There the insolence of power
Falls away,
And the proudest soul must cower,
For the spirit takes no dower
From the clay.

Common lives have wondrous splendor
In that light;
For the spirit meek and tender
Puts to shame the king's defender,
Shorn of might.

Natures touched with fires seraphic
Shed their care;
And on peace-girt islands Sapphic,
Far from fretful toil and traffic,
Dream and dare.

Laws through years of wrong descended,
There are changed;
Customs with injustice blended,
Creeds for centuries defended,
Rearranged.

Heaven has solace without measure.
You and I
Should not dream of earthly pleasure,
But should think upon our treasure