Random Rhymes Poem by John Critchley Prince

Let stand-still souls bemoan the dreary past,
With all its errors numberless and vast;
Its waste in warfare, torture-tools, and fires,
Its false ambitions and its fierce desires,
Its clouded intellects and fettered tongues,
Its rank intolerance and its lawless wrongs,
Its savage serfdom and its sordid power,
Its horrors fearful as delirium's hour,
Its cruel codes and desolating crimes,
Unlike the triumphs of our later times.
These peaceful unions of the great and small,
That crowd and dignify this spacious hall;
These proofs of progress, these inspiring sights,
That give us hope of loftier delights;
These signs and promises of things that throng
The prophet's vision, and the poet's song—
Shadows that seem, but shadows that shall grow
To bright and blest realities below.

Onward, still onward, with assiduous speed,
And be your efforts equal to your need;
Linger not, languish not, in march nor mind,
Nor stay to look upon the plain behind;
One footstep lost, another gains the race,
And leaves you toiling in a backward place.
Onward, still onward, with unshrinking soul,
Your children follow and shall win the goal,
Shall win the guerdon of your toils, and stray
Within the opening dawn of Freedom's perfect day.

Workers that weary in the mill and mine,
Come to the banquet, which is half divine;
Craftsmen that labour at the bench and stall,
The door is open and the cost is small;
Shopmen who sicken with the cares of trade,
Seek the Lyceum for your solace made;
Magnates who struggle with unwieldy wealth,
Fly to our refuge for your spirits' health.
All, all are welcome, be they high or low,
We've food for laughter, we have balm for woe.
Go on rejoicing, steadfast in the right,
Increasing still in intellectual might,
And I, a unit in the worldly throng,
Will wake my lowly harp, and cheer your way
with song.