He ceased, he thrust each hard-clenched fist,
He threw his gold hard forth again,
As one impelled by some mad pain
He would not or could not resist.
The creole, scorning, turned away,
As if he turned from that lost thief,—
The one that died without belief
That awful crucifixion day.
III.
Believe in man, nor turn away.
Lo! man advances year by year;
Time bears him upward, and his sphere
Of life must broaden day by day.
Believe in man with large belief;
The garnered grain each harvest-time
Hath promise, roundness, and full prime
For all the empty chaff and sheaf.
Believe in man with proud belief:
Truth keeps the bottom of her well,
And when the thief peeps down, the thief
Peeps back at him, perpetual.
Faint not that this or that man fell;
For one that falls a thousand rise
To lift white Progress to the skies:
Truth keeps the bottom of her well.
Fear not for man, nor cease to delve
For cool sweet truth, with large belief.
Lo! Christ himself chose only twelve,
Yet one of these turned out a thief.
IV.
Down through the dark magnolia leaves
Where climbs the rose of Cherokee
Against the orange-blossomed tree,
A loom of moonlight weaves and weaves,—