With an air of self-content,
High he lifts his fair white hands:
"Stand ye still! ye restless nations;
And be happy, all ye lands!
Fate is law, and law is perfect;
If ye meddle, ye will mar;
Change is rash, and ever was so:
We are happy as we are."
Mightier is the younger preacher,
Genius flashes from his eyes:
And the crowds who hear his voice
Give him, while their souls rejoice,
Throbbing bosoms for replies.
Awed they listen, yet elated,
While his stirring accents fall:--
"Forward! ye deluded nations,
Progress is the rule of all:
Man was made for healthful effort;
Tyranny has crush'd him long;
He shall march from good to better,
And do battle with the wrong.
"Standing still is childish folly,
Going backward is a crime:
None should patiently endure
Any ill that he can cure;
Onward! keep the march of Time,
Onward! while a wrong remains
To be conquer'd by the right;
While Oppression lifts a finger
To affront us by his might;
While an error clouds the reason
Of the universal heart,
Or a slave awaits his freedom
Action is the wise man's part.
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