Christopher Pearse Cranch (1813–1892)

PRAISE, praise ye the prophets, the sages

Who lived and who died for the ages;

The grand and magnificent dreamers;

The heroes, and mighty redeemers;

The martyrs, reformers, and leaders;

The voices of mystical Vedas;

The bibles of races long shrouded

Who left us their wisdom unclouded;

The truth that is old as their mountains,

But fresh as the rills from their fountains.

And praise ye the poets whose pages

Give solace and joy to the ages;

Who have seen in their marvellous trances

Of thought and of rhythmical fancies,

The manhood of Man in all errors;

The triumph of hope over terrors;

The great human heart ever pleading

Its kindred divine, though misleading,

Fate held it aloof from the heaven

That to spirits untempted was given.

The creeds of the past that have bound us,

With visions of terror around us

Like dungeons of stone that have crumbled,

Beneath us lie shattered and humbled.

The tyranny mitred and crested,

Flattered and crowned and detested;

The blindness that trod upon Science;

The bigotry Ignorance cherished;

The armed and the sainted alliance

Of conscience and hate—they have perished,

Have melted like mists in the splendor

Of life and of beauty supernal—

Of love ever watchful and tender,

Of law ever one and eternal.