Classic Poem

Our altar is the dewy sod —
Our temple yon blue throne of God:
No priestly rite our souls to bind —
We bow before the Almighty Mind.

Oh, Thou whose realm is wide as air —
Thou wilt not spurn the Gipsies' prayer:
Though banned and barred by all beside,
Be Thou the Outcast's guard and guide.

Poor fragments of a Nation wrecked —
Its story whelmed in Time's neglect —
We drift unheeded on the wave,
If God refuse the lost to save.

Yet though we name no Fatherland —
And though we clasp no kindred hand —
Though houseless, homeless wanderers we —
Oh give us Hope, and Heaven with Thee!