coarse, Scorning refinements which he lacks himself, Loves not nor heeds the ancestral hierarchies, Each rank dependent on the next above Of holier unction than the sweat of toil; In his own strength sufficient; called to solve, On the rough edges of society, As gifts of deity; tough foundling reared Where every man's his own Melchisedek, How make him reverent of a King of kings? Or Judge self-made, executor of laws Or holy of holies, unprofaned a day The benediction bides, old skies return, And that unreal thing, pre-eminent, Makes air and dream of all we see and feel? Shall he divine no strength unmade of votes, Inward, impregnable, found soon as sought, Not cognizable of sense, o'er sense supreme? Else were he desolate as none before, By artist feigned or pious ardor reared, man. Doubtless his church will be no hospital | That echoes vaguely to my modern For superannuate forms and mumping shams, No parlor where men issue policies ers in, Scorned by the strong; yet he, uncon- To the influence sweet of Athens and of And old Judæa's gift of secret fire, steps. By suffrage universal it was built, came From far as Rouen, to give votes for Each vote a block of stone securely laid Will what our ballots rear, responsible To no grave forethought, stand so long as this? Spite of himself shall surely learn to Delight like this the eye of after days know Brightening with pride that here, at least, were men Who meant and did the noblest thing they knew? Can our religion cope with deeds like this? We, too, build Gothic contract-shams, Our deacons have discovered that it pays, Is but a trick of this world's atmosphere, That dust the prophets shake from off Grows heavy to drag down both tower and wall? I know not; but, sustained by sure That man still rises level with the height Each the bright gift of some mechanic Who loved their city and thought gold well spent To make her beautiful with piety; I pause, transfigured by some stripe of bloom, And my mind throngs with shining auguries, Circle on circle, bright as seraphim, With golden trumpets, silent, that await The signal to blow news of good to men. Then the revulsion came that always comes After these dizzy elations of the mind: | Tonic, it may be, not delectable, And turned, reluctant, for a parting look At those old weather-pitted images Of bygone struggle, now so sternly calm. About their shoulders sparrows had built nests, And fluttered, chirping, from gray perch to perch, Now on a mitre poising, now a crown, Flew on those lightsome wings and shared the sun, And with a passionate pang of doubt I│A larger shadow crossed; and looking up, I saw where, nesting in the hoary towers, The sparrow-hawk slid forth on noiseless air, With sidelong head that watched the joy below, Grim Norman baron o'er this clan of Kelts. Enduring Nature, force conservative, Indifferent to our noisy whims! Men prate Of all heads to an equal grade cashiered On level with the dullest, and expect (Sick of no worse distemper than themselves) A wondrous cure-all in equality; They reason that To-morrow must be wise Because To-day was not, nor Yesterday, As if good days were shapen of themselves, Not of the very lifeblood of men's souls; Meanwhile, long-suffering, imperturbable, Thou quietly complet'st thy syllogism, And from the premise sparrow here below Draw'st sure conclusion of the hawk above, Pleased with the soft-billed songster, pleased no less With the fierce beak of natures aquiline. Thou beautiful Old Time, now hid away Then to reclaim the sword and crown again! Thrice beautiful to us; perchance less fair To who possessed thee, as a mountain seems To dwellers round its bases but a heap Of barren obstacle that lairs the storm And the avalanche's silent bolt holds back Leashed with a hair, far-off clown, meanwhile some Hereditary delver of the plain, Sees it an unmoved vision of repose, Nest of the morning, and conjectures there The dance of streams to idle shepherds' pipes, And fairer habitations softly hung That the scant isthmus he encamps upon Between two oceans, one, the Stormy, passed, And one, the Peaceful, yet to venture on, Has been that future whereto prophets yearned For the fulfilment of Earth's cheated hope, Shall be that past which nerveless poets moan As the lost opportunity of song. O Power, more near my life than life itself (Or what seems life to us in sense immured), Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth, |