Thrust its Socrates the hemlock, scourged its Jesus to the grave;
Though its sneer has chilled the tender, and its frown has cursed the good,
While its Nero sways the sceptre and its Emmett dies in blood;
Yet in Truth there is a power that through ceaseless cycles slow
Will inscribe the doom of Error in an ever-fadeless glow,
That will trample on oppression, burst the chains and crush the throne,
Rearing on the blood and ruin justice-reign from zone to zone.
Idealistic dreamer, say you? In your youth you once felt so?
Well, I only pray life’s sunset, bowing down my head with snow,
Shall not swerve me from my purpose, though the victor-laurels twine