Classic Poem

T HERE'S somewhat that's lurking unseen,
A phantom that folks are afraid of;
Oh! what does this cowardice mean?
Oh! what kind of stuff are men made of?

There's Sandy, six feet in his socks,
Yet tales of his childhood enslave him,
And he sits with his soul in the stocks,
In spite of the reason God gave him.

Yes, tho' he's six feet and twelve stone,
Poor fellow, we will not upbraid him,
For ah! he has never outgrown
The suit that his grandmother made him.

E'en men who would evil assail,
For whom death itself has no terror,
Before Madam Grundy grow pale,
And bow at the shrine of old Error:

And kneel to the thing they despise,
And bow to the veriest follies,
And prop up the temple of lies
As if 'twere the Holy of Holies.

Afraid of what people would say,
They give themselves up to deceiving.
Come forth in the light of the day,
And stand by the truth ye believe in.

And ye shall be strong in the right,
Tho' fanatics hate and abhor ye,
For ye shall have angels of light,
And the shield of truth hanging o'er ye.

Be hooted and hiss'd by the mob,
From post unto pillar be driven,
Be sneer'd at by every snob:
Of such is the kingdom of heaven.