Classic Poem

All hail to the chiefs of thought,
Who wield the mighty pen
That light may at last be brought
To the darken'd souls of men! —
To the gifted seers who preach,
To the humble bards who sing,
To all the heads that teach
In Truth's enchanted ring;

To the soldiers of the right,
To the heroes of the true, —
Oh! ours were a sorry plight,
Great conquerors, but for you!
Oh, ye are the men of worth!
Oh, ye are the men of might!
Oh, ye are the kings of earth!
Your swords are Love and Right.

'Tis not at the beat of drum
Earth's great ones all appear:
At the nation's call they come,
But not with sword and spear.
Then hail to the brave who lead
In the humble paths of peace!
To the hearts that toil and bleed
That wrong may sooner cease!

Oh! what are the robes we wear,
Or the heights to which we climb?
'Tis only the hearts we bear
Can make our lives sublime;
'Tis only the good we do
That lives throughout all time;
'Tis only the faithful few
Who reach the heights sublime.

Then hail to the chiefs of thought
Who wield the mighty pen
That light may at last be brought
To the darken'd souls of men, —
To the soldiers of the right,
To the heroes of the true, —
Oh, ours were a sorry plight,
Great conquerors, but for you!