And some to the din from the city borne,
And some to the rolling of torrent floods,
Far midst old mountains and solemn woods.
So are we roused on this checker’d earth:
Each unto light hath a daily birth;
Though fearful or joyous, though sad or sweet,
Are the voices which first our upspringing meet.
But one must the sound be, and one the call,
Which from the dust shall awaken us all:
One!—but to sever’d and distant dooms,