THOUGHT IS MARCHING ONWARD STILL

Tombs of tyrants—graves of bondsmen
Lie around us cold and chill,
Teaching by their silent warning
Thought is marching onward still.

Throbbing with the hope of ages
Hearts of blinded millions thrill,
Crowned with thorns, or crowned with laurels,
Thought is marching onward still.

Millions sunk in saddening bondage,
Other millions millions kill;
Yet, amid the crash of armies,
Thought is marching onward still.

Striding o'er the world's broad highway,
Slow surmounting adverse hill,
Strides the celeste-born immortal—
Thought is marching onward still.

Through the streets of steepled city,
Where the fever-fumes distil,
With distant goal in eye-range,
Thought is marching—marching still.

Aye, dispelling mental darkness,
Aye, dispersing clouds of ill,
Aye, with unblenched brow and bearing,
Thought is marching—marching still.

Firmly fronting marshalled cohorts,
Heedless of the despot's will,
Marching proud to Miriam-music,
Thought to victory hurries still.