He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices

In the star's anthem than the insect's hum.

He in his heart was ever meek and humble,
And yet with kingly pomp his numbers ran,
As he foresaw how all things false should crumble
Before the free, uplifted soul of man:

And, when he was made full to overflowing
With all the loveliness of heaven and earth,
Out rushed his song, like molten iron glowing,
To show God sitting by the humblest hearth.
With calmest courage he was ever ready

To teach that action was the truth of thought,
And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady,
The anchor of the drifting world he wrought.
So did he make the meanest man partaker

Of all his brother-gods unto him gave;

All souls did reverence him and name him Maker,
And when he died heaped temples on his grave.
And still his deathless words of light are swimming
Serene throughout the great, deep infinite
Of human soul, unwaning and undimming,

To cheer and guide the mariner at night.

II.

But now the Poet is an empty rhymer
Who lies with idle elbow on the grass,
And fits his singing, like a cunning timer,

To all men's prides and fancies as they pass.
Not his the song, which, in its metre holy,
Chimes with the music of the eternal stars,
Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly,

And sending sun through the soul's prison-bars.
Maker no more, - O, no! unmaker rather,
For he unmakes who doth not all put forth
The power given by our loving Father

To show the body's dross, the spirit's worth.
Awake! great spirit of the ages olden!
Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre,
And let man's soul be yet again beholden
To thee for wings to soar to her desire.

O, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor,

Be no more shame-faced to speak out for Truth,

Lay on her altar all the gushings tender,

The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth!

O, prophesy no more the Maker's coming,

Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear In the dim void, like to the awful humming

Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere! O, prophesy no more, but be the Poet!

This longing was but granted unto thee

That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it,
That beauty in its highest thou couldst be.
O, thou who moanest tost with sealike longings,
Who dimly hearest voices call on thee,
Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings
Of love, and fear, and glorious agony,

Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews
And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed,

In whom the hero-spirit yet continues,

The old free nature is not chained or dead, Arouse! let thy soul break in music-thunder, Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent, Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder, And tell the age what all its signs have meant. Where'er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles,

Where'er there lingers but a shade of wrong,

There still is need of martyrs and apostles,
There still are texts for never-dying song:
From age to age man's still aspiring spirit
Finds wider scope and sees with clearer eyes,
And thou in larger measure dost inherit

What made thy great forerunners free and wise. Sit thou enthroned where the Poet's mountain

Above the thunder lifts its silent peak,

And roll thy songs down like a gathering fountain,
That all may drink and find the rest they seek.
Sing! there shall silence grow in earth and heaven,
A silence of deep awe and wondering;

For, listening gladly, bend the angels, even,
To hear a mortal like an angel sing.

III.

Among the toil-worn poor my soul is seeking
For one to bring the Maker's name to light,
To be the voice of that almighty speaking

Which every age demands to do it right.
Proprieties our silken bards environ;

He who would be the tongue of this wide land

Must string his harp with chords of sturdy iron
And strike it with a toil-embrowned hand;
One who hath dwelt with Nature well-attended,
Who hath learnt wisdom from her mystic books,
Whose soul with all her countless lives hath blended,
So that all beauty awes us in his looks;

Who not with body's waste his soul hath pampered,
Who as the clear northwestern wind is free,
Who walks with Form's observances unhampered,
And follows the One Will obediently;

Whose eyes, like windows on a breezy summit,
Control a lovely prospect every way;

Who doth not sound God's sea with earthly plummet,
And find a bottom still of worthless clay;
Who heeds not how the lower gusts are working,
Knowing that one sure wind blows on above,

And sees, beneath the foulest faces lurking,

One God-built shrine of reverence and love;

Who sees all stars that wheel their shining marches Around the centre fixed of Destiny,

Where the encircling soul serene o'erarches

The moving globe of being like a sky;