All thoughts that mould the age begin
50Deep down within the primitive soul,
And from the many slowly upward win
To one who grasps the whole.
In his wide brain the feeling deep
That struggled on the many's tongue
55Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap
O'er the weak thrones of wrong.
All thought begins in feeling,—wide
In the great mass its base is hid,
And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified,
60A moveless pyramid.
Nor is he far astray, who deems
That every hope, which rises and grows broad
In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams
From the great heart of God.
65God wills, man hopes; in common souls
Hope is but vague and undefined,
Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls
A blessing to his kind.
Never did Poesy appear
70So full of heaven to me, as when
I saw how it would pierce through pride and fear,
To the lives of coarsest men.
It may be glorious to write
Thoughts that shall glad the two or three
75High souls, like those far stars that come in sight
Once in a century;—
But better far it is to speak
One simple word, which now and then
Shall waken their free nature in the weak
80And friendless sons of men;
To write some earnest verse or line
Which, seeking not the praise of art.
Shall make a clearer faith and manhood shine
In the untutored heart.
85He who doth this, in verse or prose,
May be forgotten in his day,
But surely shall be crowned at last with those
Who live and speak for aye.