Not lured by any cheat of birth, But by his clear-grained human worth, And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust; They could not choose but trust In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill, And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust. His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind, Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars, A seamark now, now lost in vapors blind; Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined, Fruitful and friendly for all human kind, Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of loftiest stars. Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still, Ere any names of Serf and Could Nature's equal scheme Here was a type of the true elder race, And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face. I praise him not; it were too late; And some innative weakness there must be In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait, Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime, Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums, Disturb our judgment for the hour, But at last silence comes: These all are gone, and, standing like a tower, Not in anger, not in pride, Ever to base earth allied, To heroes living and dear martyrs dead, The strain should close that consecrates our brave. Lift the heart and lift the head! Beats no march of conscious Sweeps no tumult of elation! But the pith and marrow of a Drawing force from all her men, all, For her day of need, and then Pulsing it again through them, Till the basest can no longer cower Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem. Come back, then, noble pride, for 'tis her dower! How could poet ever tower, Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves! Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple! Banners, adance with triumph, bend your staves! And from every mountain-peak Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, And so leap on in light from sea to sea, Till the glad news be sent Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver: "Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her! She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, She of the open soul and open door, With room about her hearth for all mankind! The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more; From her bold front the helm she doth unbind, Send all her handmaid armies back to spin, And bid her navies that so lately hurled Their crashing battle, hold their Swimming like birds of calm That looked askance and hated; Plays on her mouth, as round her mighty knees She calls her children back, and waits the morn Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas." Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release! Thy God, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of his ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace! Bow down in prayer and praise! O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more! Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, And letting thy set lips, Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make CHICAGO. ОСТ. 10, 1871. BLACKENED and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone, On the charred fragments of her shattered throne Lies she who stood but yesterday alone. Queen of the West! by some enchanter taught To lift the glory of Aladdin's court, Then lose the spell that all that wonder wrought. Like her own prairies by some chance seed sown, Like her own prairies in one brief day grown, Like her own prairies in one fierce night mown. She lifts her voice, and in her pleading call We hear the cry of Macedon to Paul, The cry for help that makes her kin to all. But haply with wan fingers may she feel The silver cup hid in the proffered meal, The gifts her kinship and our loves reveal. BRET HARTE. |