IT MOVES.
“I know it moves,” so said the man Whose genius read the astral scroll From east to west, from pole to pole, Yet, under a terrific ban,
Denied his thought, the truth denied, And crushed in soul betwixt the strife Of love of truth and love of life, To silence doomed he slowly died.
Since that dark hour, ’tis joy to know, The thoughts of fearless men have moved As move the stars; the years have proved Thy deathless worth, Galileo!
What marvel if he shrank with dread Beneath the lifted iron hand Whose marks were seen on every land,— Red marks where truest seers had bled.
The glare of Bruno’s fiery shroud Still seemed to haunt the midnight skies, And falling on his menaced eyes, His head the noble Pisan bowed.
And who the number may compute Of kindred souls, whose secret fears Have held them captive all their years, And kept their lips forever mute?
Grim Persecution’s sleepless rage Has many guises, all the same In essence, differing but in name, O’er all the earth, from age to age.
And if less potent now for harm, Let Freedom’s watchmen guard her towers; Happy to cry the all-well hours, Ready to ring the prompt alarm.
Low sinks the race where thought and speech Are helpless slaves to crown and cross; Where heresy brings blame and loss; And each is set a spy on each.
Blest is the soil where men can stand And say it is a crime to hide The light of reason, to deride The one sure Deity’s command—
The voice of Conscience;—here to-night This heritage of centuries, old And new, in sacred trust we hold: Our watchword—“Freedom and the Right.”