It is statesmen not statemen, we need in this hour;
Not those who are seeking for place and for power,
But strong, earnest souls, with no word in the mouth
Unkind or unfriendly to East, West, North or South.
No mixers of poison, concocted with art—
The hell-broth of passion—to fire the heart;
No arrayers of creeds, setting one against t'other—
The father 'gainst son, and the brother 'gainst brother—
In the hope of controlling in frenzy's mad hour,
The storm they have raised, and to reel into power!
We want men in this crisis; whole men, such as erst—
When the war cloud of liberty darken'd and burst
O'er the land, and after a seven years' strife,
Left it prostrate and bleeding, but instinct with life—
Came forward, each man with his heart in his hand,
To help build the temple majestic and grand,
Which through envy and scoffing, through doubts and through fears,
Our refuge has been for the past hundred years:
The temple whose broad-based foundations were laid
By workmen inspired by the love of their trade,
(Like those by whom old-world cathedrals were made),
And laid in cement which they know how to mix—
The wide-open temple of Seventy-six!