Poetry.

Old Time.
The Old Man is up, he is up and away!
At twilight I saw him, at break of the day:
I saw him at noon, and I saw him at night,
O'er all the wide world still urging his flight;
Old Temples, old Towers, and every old thing—
He gave them a flap of his cold leaden wing:
And he sang his old song as still onward he flew—
"I pull down the old things to build up the new."

He flew to the East, to the West, South and North,
He stopped not for genius, or beauty, or worth;
No flattery soothed him, no sceptre could sway—
No mandate of kings, or soft minstrelsy's lay!
The hours on the fleet clouds around him set sail:
Day and night flew along on the wings of the gale;
On whirlwinds the Seasons kept spinning apace;
And Ages on Ages rushed on the race!

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Up, up, Child of Freedom! Rise up in the light!
'Tis the race of true reason, religion, and right!
Let the bigoted tyrants of body and mind,
With their minions of darkness still loiter behind:
Be they State obscurantists or pietist knaves,
In high or low places, they'll perish like slaves,
Trampled down in the dust as Old Time rushes on
In the race never ending and ever begun!

Anon.