The midland journal. (Rising Sun, Md.) 1885-1947, 1892-09-30
GIL COUNTY, MD. FRIDAY SEPTEMBER 3O 1899. NO. 3
Prophetic Poem.

BY JAMES c. CLARK.
Swing inward, o gates of the future,
Swing outward ye doors of the past
For the soul of the people is moving
And rising from slumber at last;
The black forms of night are retreating,
The white peaks have signaled the day,
And Freedom her long roll is beating,
And calling her sons to the fray.
And woe to the rule that has plundered,
And trod down the wounded and slain,
While the wars of the Old Time have thuudered
And men poured their lite-tide in vain;
The day OF its triumph is ending,
The evening draws near with its doom,
And the star of its strength is descending
To sleep in dishonor and gloom.
Though the tall trees are crowned on the highlands
With the first gold of rainbow and sun
While far in the distance below them
The rivers in dark shades run
They must fall, and the workman shall burn then
Where the land and the low waters meet,
And the steeds of the New Time shall spurn then
With the soles of their swift-fying feet.
Swing inward, gates till the morning
Shall paut the brown mountains in gold,
Till the life and the love OF the New Time
Shall conquer the hate of the old.
Let the face and the hand of the Master
No longer be hidden from view,
Nor the lands He prepared for the many,
Be trampled and robbed by the few.
The soil tells the same fruitful story,
The seasons their bounies display
And the flowers lift their faces in glory
To catch the warm kisses of day
While our fellows treated as cattle
| That are muzzled while treadng the corn,
And millions sink down in life's battle
| With curse for the day they were born.
| Must the plead in vain that the river
| May return to its mother for rest?
And the ea1th beg the rain.clouds to give her
| OF dews that are drawn from her breast?
| Lol The answer comes back in mutter
From domes where the quick lightnings glow
And from heights where the mad waters utter
| Their warming to dwellers below.
And woe to robbers who gather
| In fields where they never have sown,
| Who have stolen the jewels from labor
And builded to Mammon throne
For the snowking asleep at the fountains
| Shall wake in the Summers hot breath
And descend in his rage from the mountains
| Bearing terror, destruction and death.
And the throne of their god shall be crumbled
| And the scepter be swept from his hand,
| And the heart OF the naughty be humbled
| And servant be chief in the land;
And the truth and the power united
| Shall rise from the graves of the true,
And the wrongs of the Old Time be righted
In the might and the light of the New.
For the Lord of the harvest hath said it
| Whose lips never uttered lie
And his prophets and poets have read it
| In symbols of earth and of sky,
That to him who hath reveled in plunder
Till the angel of conscience is dumb,
The shock of the earthquake and thunder
| And tempest and torrent shall come
Swing inward, o gates of the future,
| Swing outward, ye doors of the past,
A giant is waking from slumber,
| And rendering his fetters at last;
From the dust where his proud tyrants found hin
| Unhonored and scorned aud betrayed,
He shall rise with the sunlight around him.
| And rule in the realm he has made.