And let our gushing songs befit the dawn And sunrise, and the yet unshaken dew Brimming the chalice of each full-blown hope, Whose blithe front turns to greet the growing day! Never had poets such high call before, Never can poets hope for higher one, And, if they be but faithful to their trust, Earth will remember them with love and joy, And O, far better, God will not forget. For he who settles Freedom's principles Writes the death-warrant of all tyranny; Who speaks the truth stabs Falsehood to the heart, And his mere word makes despots tremble | Though loud Niagara were to-day struck dumb, Yet would this cataract of boiling life Rush plunging on and on to endless deeps, And utter thunder till the world shall cease, A thunder worthy of the poet's song, And which alone can fill it with true life. The high evangel to our country granted Could make apostles, yea, with tongues of fire, Of hearts half-darkened back again to clay ! 'T is the soul only that is national, And he who pays true loyalty to that Alone can claim the wreath of patriotism. Beloved! if I wander far and oft From that which I believe, and feel, and know, Thou wilt forgive, not with a sorrowing heart, But with a strengthened hope of better things; Knowing that I, though often blind and false To those I love, and O, more false than all Unto myself, have been most true to thee, And that whoso in one thing hath been true Can be as true in all. Therefore thy hope May yet not prove unfruitful, and thy love Meet, day by day, with less unworthy thanks, Whether, as now, we journey hand in hand, Or, parted in the body, yet are one To please the fairy folk; breathlessly deep The stillness was, save when the dreaming brook He had been noble, but some great de- From its small urn a drizzly murmu ceit Had turned his better instinct to a vice: He strove to think the world was all a cheat,. That power and fame were cheap at any price, That the sure way of being shortly great Was even to play life's game with loaded dice, Since he had tried the honest play and found That vice and virtue differed but in sound. XIX. Yet Margaret's sight redeemed him for a space From his own thraldom; man could never be A hypocrite when first such maiden grace Smiled in upon his heart; the agony Of wearing all day long a lying face Fell lightly from him, and, a moment free, Erect with wakened faith his spirit stood And scorned the weakness of his demonmood. XX. Like a sweet wind-harp to him was her thought, Which would not let the common air come near, Till from its dim enchantment it had Here, leaning once against the old oak's ear trunk, Mordred, for such was the young Templar's name, With sweetness more ethereal than aught | Saw Margaret come; unseen, the falcon Save silver-dropping snatches that shrunk From the meek dove; sharp thrills of tingling flame Made him forget that he was vowed a monk, |