SELF-RELIANCE.
When the eaglets' tender wings are feathered
The old eagles crowd them from the nest;
Down they flutter till their plumes have gathered
Strength to lift them to the granite crest
Of the hills their eldest sires possessed.
When the one cub of the lordly lions
Strikes the earth and shakes his bristling mane,
Forth they lash him, though he growl defiance,
O'er the sand-waste to pursue his gain,—
Shaggy Nimrod of the desert plain!
Still the eagles watch out from the eyrie
On the mountains, their young heirs to screen;
The old lions on the hot sand-prairie,—
If some peril track their cub,—unseen,
Stealthier than the Bedouin, glide between.
So the noblest of earth's creatures noble
Are cast forth to find their way alone,
So our manhood, in its day of trouble,
Is but crowded from the sheltering zone
And broad love-wings, to achieve its throne.
We are left to battle, not forsaken,
Watched in secret by our awful Sire;
Left to conquer, lest our spirits weaken,
And forget to wrestle and aspire,
Finding all things prompter than desire.
He hath hid the everlasting presence
Of his Godhead from the world he made,
Veiled his incommunicable essence
In thick darkness of thick clouds arrayed,
On our bold search flashing through the shade.
We are gods in veritable seeming
When we struggle for our vacant thrones,
But are earthlings beyond God's redeeming
While we lean, and creep, and beg in moans,
And base kneeling cramps our knitted bones.
Strength is given us, and a field for labor,
Boundless vigor and a boundless field;
Not to eat the harvests of our neighbor,
But our own fate's reaping-hook to wield—
Gathering only what our lands may yield;
If perchance it may be wheat or darnel,
Bitter herbs to medicine a wrong,
Stinging thistles round a haunted charnel,
Or rich wines to make us glad and strong,—
Fitting fruits that to each mood belong.
While such power and scope to us are given,
Who shall bind us to the triumph-car
Of some victor soul, before us driven,
Earlier hero in the work and war,
Him to mimic, humbly and afar?
No! we will not stoop, and fawn and follow;
There are victories for our hands to win,
Rocks to rive, and stubborn glebes to mellow,
Outward trials leagued to foes within;
Earth and self to purify from sin.
No! our spirits shall not cringe and grovel,
Stooping lowly to a low thoughts door,
As if Heaven were straitened to a hovel,
All its star-worlds set to rise no more,
And our genius had no wings to soar.
Truths bequeathed us are for lures to action;
Not for grave-stones fane and altar stand,
Tempting men to wait the resurrection
Of old prophets from their sunsets grand,—
Rather mile-stones towards the Promised Land,
Gird your mantles and bind on your sandals,
Each man marching by his own birth-star;
God will crown us when those glimmering candles
Swell to suns as forth we track them far,—
Suns that bear our throne and victory-bannered car!
[pg 151]