%images; ]> scsm-000028 The people's advent : a new quartette for the times / words by Gerald Massy [i.e. Massey] ; music by James G. Clark ...: a machine readable transcription. STERN COLLECTION OF LINCOLNIANA, Library of Congress Selected and converted. American Memory, Library of Congress.

Washington, DC, 2006.

Preceding element provides place and date of transcription only.

For more information about this text and this American Memory collection, refer to accompanying matter.

 Rare Book & Special Collections Division, Library of Congress. Public Domain

The National Digital Library Program at the Library of Congress makes digitized historical materials available for education and scholarship.

This transcription is intended to have an accuracy rate of 99.95 percent or greater and is not intended to reproduce the appearance of the original work. The accompanying images provide a facsimile of this work and represent the appearance of the original.

 2008/04/18
0001

“The People's Advent.”

'Tis coming up the steep of Time, And this old world is growing brighter, We may not see its dawn sublime, Yet high hopes makes the heart throb lighter, We may be sleeping in the ground, When it awakes the world in wonder, But we have felt it gath'ring round, And heard its voice of living thunder.

Chorus: 'Tis coming, O! yes 'tis coming.

'Tis coming now, the glorious time Foretold by Seers, and sung in story, For which, when thinking was a crime, Souls leaped to Heaven from scafolds [scaffolds] gory! They passed, nor saw the work they wrought, Now the crowning hopes of centuries blossom, But the live lightning of their thought, And daring deeds, doth pulse Earth's bosom.

Creeds, Empires, systems rot with age, But the great people's ever youthful, And it shall write the future's page To our humanity more trutful [truthful], There is divinity within That makes men great whene'er they will it God works with all who dare to win, And the time cometh to reveal it.

Freedom, the tyrants kill thy braves Yet in our memry's live the sleepers, And though millions feed the graves Dug by death's fierce red handed reapers, The world shall not forever bow To things that mock God's own endeavor, 'Tis nearer than they dream of now, When flowers shall wreath the sword for ever.

Ah! it must come, oppressions throne Is crumbling by our hot tears rusted The sword that traitor hands have drawn Is cankered with our heart's blood crusted; Room for the men of Mind, make way, Ye robber traitors strive no longer, Ye cannot stay the opening day, The world rolls on, the light grows stronger.