No harvest else come worth its seed,
Which holds not fast, gives o’er to taunt
This word—not what is bred, but what we breed
Foregathered hoard, but what we plant,
Alone shall lift mid prides that sink,
To foison come, ’mid thorny steeps of mazy ways,
Where ruthless heats far-fated drink,
Make nought the sap of lustful days;
So pledged alone endure, enlarge,
Make good, withal, some vicared trust,
Undue to hope yon scruteless charge
Whose brief is Time and riddling Dust;
So nurtured, rear, while Right unfolds,
Athwart rude stretch of the perplexing Plan’s,
Some keep, some faith, that sheltering holds,
Sets God twice forth, thro’ will of Man’s.
Oh, yes, it was a gallant fight,
In free men’s gashes writ on Story’s page,
Nor, till her sad tome close in utter night,
And Destiny muse Time’s vanished stage.
Shall hours blank its annaled score,
But bear it down t’ward yet to-comes,
At echoed gleam, set forth yon lore,
Which word, nor thought, nor heart-heave sums—
Yon love of Free, whose far-off fount,
Which, say it flow through beast and slave,
Withal, bids man stand up, assert, account
Exalt the gift—some Self, some Soul it gracious gave;
Yon voice of Just, whose auguring sooth
Wide-visioned bounds these Nears and Fars,
While infinite Patience, she, the Truth,
Revealed, fulfills her myriad Stars.
PEACE.
The gentle word has gone abroad, and on mens’ lips
A tremor hangs, a gladness flutters at the kindly sound,
As, at fond repeat, with gathered tone, the quaver slips
On swelling heart-heaves ’bout the world’s round,