Part 5 — THE BRICKMAKER.

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BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

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I.

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded.

In no stately structures skilled,

What’s the temple we would build?

When its massive walls are risen

Call it palace—call it prison;

View it well from end to end,

See its arching courts extend!

’Tis a prison, not a palace!

Hear the culprit vent his malice!

Hear the mad and fettered fire

Pour the torrent of his ire!

Wrought anon to wilder spells,

Hear him tell his loud alarms,

See him thrust his glowing arms

Through the windows of his cells!

But his chains at last shall sever,

Slavery lives not forever;

And the thickest prison wall

Into ruin yet must fall!

Whatsoever falls away

Springeth up again, they say;

Then when this shall fall asunder,

And the fire be freed from under,

Tell us then what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a stately building,

Airy dome and columned walls;

Mottoes writ in richest gilding

Shall be blazing through its halls.

In those chambers, stern and dreaded

They, the mighty ones, shall stand;

There shall be hoary-headed

Old defenders of the land.

There shall wondrous words be spoken,

Which shall thrill a list’ning world;

Then shall ancient bonds be broken

And new banners be unfurled!

But anon these glorious uses

In those chambers shall lie dead,

And the world’s antique abuses,

Hydra-headed, rise instead.

But this wrong not long shall linger⁠—

The old capitol must fall;

For behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

II.

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded;

Till the heavy walls be risen

And the fire is in his prison:

Then when break the walls asunder

And the fire is freed from under,

Say again what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

There shall grow a church whose steeple

To the heavens shall aspire,

There shall come the mighty people

To the music of the choir.

O’er the infant, robed in whiteness,

There shall sacred waters fall,

While the child’s own angel-brightness

Sheds a halo over all.

There shall stand enwreathed in marriage

Forms that tremble—hearts that thrill;

To the door Death’s sable carriage

Shall bring forms and hearts grown still!

To the sound of pipes that glisten

Rustling wealth shall tread the aisle;

And the poor, without, shall listen,

Praying in their hearts the while.

There the veteran shall come weekly

With his cane, and bending o’er

’Mid the horses stand, how meekly,

Gazing at the open door.

But these wrongs not long shall linger⁠—

The presumptuous pile must fall,

For behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

III.

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded,

Say again what stately thing

From the ruin shall upspring?

Not the dome and columned chambers,

Starred with words of liberty,

Where the Freedom-canting members

Feel no impulse of the free.

Nor the pile where souls in error

Hear the words, “Go, sin no more!”

But a dusky thing of terror

With its cells and grated door!

To its inmates each to-morrow

Shall bring in no tide of joy.

Born in darkness and in sorrow

There shall stand the fated boy.

With a grief too loud to smother,

With a throbbing, burning head⁠—

There shall groan some desperate mother,

Nor deny the stolen bread!

There the veteran, a poor debtor,

Marked with honorable scars,

List’ning to some clanking fetter,

Shall gaze idly through the bars:⁠—

Shall gaze idly, not demurring,

Though with thick oppressions bowed;

While the thousands doubly erring

Shall go honored through the crowd!

Yet these wrongs not long shall linger⁠—

The benighted pile must fall,

For behold the fiery finger

Flames along the fated wall!

IV.

Let the blinded horse go round

Till the yellow clay be ground;

Let no weary arms be folded

Till the mass to brick be moulded;

Till the heavy walls be risen

And the fire is in his prison!

Every dome and church and jail,

Like this structure, soon must fail;

Every shape of earth shall fade!

But the temple God hath made,

For the sorely tried and pure,

With its Builder shall endure!