George Frederick Cameron (1854–1885)

O POET of the future! I,

Of the dead Present, bid thee hail!

Come forth and speak,—our speech shall die:

Come forth and sing,—our song shall fail:

Our speech, our song fall barren,—we go by!

Our heart is weak. In vain it swells

And beats to bursting at the wrong:

There never sets a sun but tells

Of weak ones trampled down by strong,

Of Truth and Justice both immured in cells.

We would aspire, but round us lies

A maze of high desires and aims;

Would seek a prize, but, ah! our eyes

Fail as we face the fallen fames

Of the great world’s Olympian games.

Seeing the victors vanquished, we

Grow heartsick at the sight, and choose

To hold in fee what things there be

Rather than in the hazard use,—

Than stake the all we have—to lose!

We all are feeble. Still we tread

An ever-upward sloping way;

Deep chasms and dark are round us spread

And bale-fires beckon us astray:

But thou shalt stand upon the mountain head.

But thou wilt look with gladdened eyes

And see the mist of error flee,

And see the happy suns arise

Of happier days that are to be,—

On greener, gladder earth, and clearer skies.

We, of the Morning, but behold

The dawn afar: thine eye shalt see

The full and perfect day unfold,—

The full and perfect day to be,

When Justice shall return as lovely as of old.

Thou, with unloosened tongue, shalt speak

In words of subtle, silver sound,—

In words not futile now, nor weak,

To all the nations listening round

Until they seek the light,—nor vainly seek!

We only ask it as our share,

That, when your day-star rises clear,—

A perfect splendour in the air,—

A glory ever, far and near,—

Ye write such words—as these of those who were!