Classic Poem

THERE was a time when bands,
With gore-marks on their hands,
Met in war-council, on our own dear isle:
Not so our gathering here:
Away with sword and spear,
And welcome learning, with its placid smile!

The lore of saint and sage,
The fruits of every age,
The past, the present, like a sky of light,
Glow on the ravish'd sense,
With ecstasy intense,
Gilding the way-marks of Time's pathway bright.

Hark, 't is no chieftain's tread,
With firebrand blazing red,
Wielding, in ire, the rude avenger's knife;
But music's notes ye hear,
In dulcet numbers clear:
Away, away with discord, and with strife.

Behold, with rapt amaze,
On your delighted gaze,
We spread the riches of the field of song:
Heroes that never die,
And nymphs, of virtue high,
And merit, soaring like an eagle strong.

Who does not love the flowers,
The poet's broomy bowers,
The blackbird whistling on the hawthorn tree?
The lark's lay o'er the cloud,
When Eve is purple-brow'd,
And brooklets murmur? Come, and hear, and see.

History shall spread her store;
The annals of the poor,
Those master-minds who labour'd and achieved,
The aspiring soul shall fire,
To climb, and glitter higher,
And leave a halo for the gift received.

Hail, labour's noble line,
In meadow or in mine,
Whether ye lay the rail, or ride the wave;
Ye are a nation's health,
Ye are a nation's wealth,
Her treasure ye, the bravest of the brave!

Science owes much to you,
And highest poetry too;
Yours are the hands which sweep the strongest lyre,
Whose echoes will roll by,
Till Time himself shall die:
Think of our Shakspere, like a globe of fire.

We reach our hands once more,
To grasp the labouring poor:
Ye artisans, ye tillers of the sod,
Striving, on land or sea!
No matter where ye be,
" An honest man's the noblest work of God. "

Our greeting now extends
To each of you, dear friends,
The high, the low, the learned and refined:
This is our earnest aim,
To fan the hopeful flame,
And in the scale of honour lift mankind.

The summer days are past,
The rains have come at last,
The redbreast mourns among the wood-leaves sere:
The flowers have droop'd away,
With silent, damp decay,
And so once more we joy to meet you here.

O, let us strive to bring
Conquests to heaven's great King,
To clothe the orphan, cheer the widow's whine;
The hungry one to feed,
To light the home of need,
And fill the world with charity Divine.

High up before you now,
We lift the press and plough,
Foremost to usher in the reign of love,
When battle-feuds no more
Are known, from shore to shore,
A lovely symbol of the land above.

Shout in the reign of Peace,
When tyranny shall cease,
And not a bullet cuts the feverish air;
When the green corn shall rise,
And ripen 'neath all skies,
And man shall meet his brother everywhere!