Aye, it must come! the Tyrant's throne
Is crumbling, with men's hot tears rusted;
The sword earth's mighty have leant upon
Is cankered, with men's hearts' blood crusted!
Room! for the man of love make way!
Ye selfish great ones, pause no longer;
Ye cannot stay the opening day,
The world rolls on, the light grows stronger—
The Master's advent's coming!"