Finis Coronat Opus

When men beneath a yoke of kings Pass all their lives in thrall. And dare not think of liberty Lest to despair they fall; When lords aloft in castles great Send forth their men to wars, And care they not what be their fate Beyond the palace doors; When freedom’s light still burns beyond The mist of tyranny, Tis duty’s call, to break such bonds, And fight for liberty.

How long has mem’ry ceased to be Among a people free, And how long shall a country last, Forgetful of her past? Shall deeds of valor fade away, Like light at end of day, And tales of men in battle brave Lie with them in the grave? And what becomes of culture built On Justice’s strong hill, When no man living knows her name Except in twisted frame? Great men did not their lives forsake That children might then break The choicest gems of freedom dear, And yoke of bondage wear.

In western land, across the sea, Where men of old fought to be free From tyrant’s cruel scepter grim, And did at last their country win, They statutes wrote, and laws did pass, ‘Neath which no crooked king could last. Protected they the rights of all, To life, and liberty, and call To work their pleasure, joy pursue, And safeguards to their line embue; Great words and laws and deeds were done In early days ‘neath freedom’s sun. Yet o’er the years, these rights forgot The leaders of this nation; naught But power, wealth, and station high Did ever catch their greedy eye, And right to life was swift denied The weakest ones, in dreadful pride. When nation great forgets from whence It grew and nourished hope long since, And flees from God, Who granted peace And gave all people liberty, Then ought we rise, and plead, and fight, Repent in heart, and strive for life.

Once, in years gone by, there stood Among his fellows bold, A young man, principled and good, Who virtue high did hold. The land oppressed ‘neath tyrant’s rod Now groaned beneath the strain, And those who lived on New World sod Sang freedom’s blest refrain. But kings who ruthless reign upon A twisted throne of greed Will always seek to salt the ground Wherein grows liberty. And as upon the youthful land The tyrant’s gauntlet grasped, This young man stood, no sword in hand, His gaze as clear as glass, And called he to his countrymen Who long had borne the yoke Of despot mad, and soldiers grim, And to his peers he spoke, And asked if life, or peace so sweet, Could chains of slav’ry buy, Or whether, with him would they be, To freedom gain, or die. For liberty is precious, dear, And sacred gift of God; And we ought not, with vision clear, Live ‘neath a despot’s rod.

In land of progress great and vast, Where countless legends lived and passed, Though young, as yet this nation seems Compared to ancient realms and kings; This people, o’er the decades long Wrought deeds of greatness told in song, And pressed through torment, storm, and war, To honor those who came before. Yet now, in years of rest and ease, Unheard, on deafness fall the pleas To hold aloft the memories old Of forbears and their deeds so bold. For while there once, enshrined in stone, Lay tributes in the legends’ homes, Downcast the pillars lie from view, No vision, strength, or hope imbue. Cast not upon the sodden ground The honor to ancestors bound, And speak their names, and tell their deeds, Lest Time erase the nations free.

A shaded figure gazes o’er The stars and planets cast before His ancient sight; recalls he well When song of life began its spell And in the void of nothingness, There sprang up light and vividness. Before this spectre, all has passed: The birth of stars in spaces vast, The rise of kingdoms great and strong That held their scepters lifetimes long; Yet none have lasted long as he, Creation’s scribe so tasked to be. The countless ages, changing lands, All chronicled in ghostly hand That no mere mortal ever been Could with his eyes of flesh have seen; Yet record from of old is kept, As centuries pass with quickening step. How many years, when day is dead, Shall ancient scribe have on his head? How many worlds have come and gone Before his face, so dull and wan? Or is his life to measured be By days and years, as ours would be? Or is this ghost, who witnesses All that has come, what then will pass, Beyond the reach of mortal doom? For as we here all fade so soon, He sits, and record faithf...