Poem by Ebenezer Elliott

The Builders

Spring, summer, autumn, winter,
Come duly, as of old;
Winds blow, suns set, and morning saith,
"Ye hills, put on your gold."

The song of Homer liveth,
Dead Solon is not dead;
Thy splendid name, Pythagoras,
O'er realms of suns is spread.

But Babylon and Memphis
Are letters traced in dust;
Read them, earth's tyrants I ponder well
The might in which ye trust!

They rose, while all the depths of guilt
Their vain creators sounded;
They fell, because on fraud and force
Their corner-stones were founded.

Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice,
Are powers that ever stand;
They build their temples in the soul,
And work with God's right hand.

1. In These Days
2. The Maltby Yews
3. The Tree of Rivilin
4. To the Bramble Flower
5. Plaint

Henry Longfellow The Builders ("All are architects of Fate")

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