IT MOVES.
“I know it moves,” so said the manWhose genius read the astral scrollFrom east to west, from pole to pole,Yet, under a terrific ban,Denied his thought, the truth denied,And crushed in soul betwixt the strifeOf love of truth and love of life,To silence doomed he slowly died.Since that dark hour, ’tis joy to know,The thoughts of fearless men have movedAs move the stars; the years have provedThy deathless worth, Galileo!What marvel if he shrank with dreadBeneath the lifted iron handWhose marks were seen on every land,—Red marks where truest seers had bled.The glare of Bruno’s fiery shroudStill seemed to haunt the midnight skies,And falling on his menaced eyes,His head the noble Pisan bowed.And who the number may computeOf kindred souls, whose secret fearsHave held them captive all their years,And kept their lips forever mute?Grim Persecution’s sleepless rageHas many guises, all the sameIn essence, differing but in name,O’er all the earth, from age to age.And if less potent now for harm,Let Freedom’s watchmen guard her towers;Happy to cry the all-well hours,Ready to ring the prompt alarm.Low sinks the race where thought and speechAre helpless slaves to crown and cross;Where heresy brings blame and loss;And each is set a spy on each.Blest is the soil where men can standAnd say it is a crime to hideThe light of reason, to derideThe one sure Deity’s command—The voice of Conscience;—here to-nightThis heritage of centuries, oldAnd new, in sacred trust we hold:Our watchword—“Freedom and the Right.”
“I know it moves,” so said the manWhose genius read the astral scrollFrom east to west, from pole to pole,Yet, under a terrific ban,Denied his thought, the truth denied,And crushed in soul betwixt the strifeOf love of truth and love of life,To silence doomed he slowly died.Since that dark hour, ’tis joy to know,The thoughts of fearless men have movedAs move the stars; the years have provedThy deathless worth, Galileo!What marvel if he shrank with dreadBeneath the lifted iron handWhose marks were seen on every land,—Red marks where truest seers had bled.The glare of Bruno’s fiery shroudStill seemed to haunt the midnight skies,And falling on his menaced eyes,His head the noble Pisan bowed.And who the number may computeOf kindred souls, whose secret fearsHave held them captive all their years,And kept their lips forever mute?Grim Persecution’s sleepless rageHas many guises, all the sameIn essence, differing but in name,O’er all the earth, from age to age.And if less potent now for harm,Let Freedom’s watchmen guard her towers;Happy to cry the all-well hours,Ready to ring the prompt alarm.Low sinks the race where thought and speechAre helpless slaves to crown and cross;Where heresy brings blame and loss;And each is set a spy on each.Blest is the soil where men can standAnd say it is a crime to hideThe light of reason, to derideThe one sure Deity’s command—The voice of Conscience;—here to-nightThis heritage of centuries, oldAnd new, in sacred trust we hold:Our watchword—“Freedom and the Right.”
“I know it moves,” so said the manWhose genius read the astral scrollFrom east to west, from pole to pole,Yet, under a terrific ban,
Denied his thought, the truth denied,And crushed in soul betwixt the strifeOf love of truth and love of life,To silence doomed he slowly died.
Since that dark hour, ’tis joy to know,The thoughts of fearless men have movedAs move the stars; the years have provedThy deathless worth, Galileo!
What marvel if he shrank with dreadBeneath the lifted iron handWhose marks were seen on every land,—Red marks where truest seers had bled.
The glare of Bruno’s fiery shroudStill seemed to haunt the midnight skies,And falling on his menaced eyes,His head the noble Pisan bowed.
And who the number may computeOf kindred souls, whose secret fearsHave held them captive all their years,And kept their lips forever mute?
Grim Persecution’s sleepless rageHas many guises, all the sameIn essence, differing but in name,O’er all the earth, from age to age.
And if less potent now for harm,Let Freedom’s watchmen guard her towers;Happy to cry the all-well hours,Ready to ring the prompt alarm.
Low sinks the race where thought and speechAre helpless slaves to crown and cross;Where heresy brings blame and loss;And each is set a spy on each.
Blest is the soil where men can standAnd say it is a crime to hideThe light of reason, to derideThe one sure Deity’s command—
The voice of Conscience;—here to-nightThis heritage of centuries, oldAnd new, in sacred trust we hold:Our watchword—“Freedom and the Right.”