Classic Poem

Awake! Ye people of the North, arise!
Tschaikowsky calls you from his mountain height
And, godlike, shakes his splendid spear of light
Athwart the harp-strings of the sounding skies.
List to the anthem; hearts and souls afire,
The people march, and singing breast the steep
Invincible, a tide upon the deep,
Storm-driven by his eagle-winged lyre.
No looking back, no mourning in the past,
But stern and brave the music sweeps along,
Content to die, if this hour be the last,
A river of imperishable song.
O new Prometheus, spread your stolen fire
And break the chains of darkness and of wrong!