The innocent ringlets of a child's free hair, And crouches, when the thought of some great spirit, With world-wide murmur, like a rising gale, Over men's hearts, as over standing corn, Rushes, and bends them to its own strong will. And, wouldst thou know of my supreme revenge, Poor tyrant, even now dethroned in heart, Realmless in soul, as tyrants ever are, Listen! and tell me if this bitter peak, A sorrow-taught, unconquered Titan-heart. Men, when their death is on them, seem to stand On a precipitous crag that overhangs The abyss of doom, and in that depth to see, As in a glass, the features dim and vast Of things to come, the shadows, as it seems, Not fearfully, but with clear promises Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne, My heart a seer, and my soul a judge Between the substance and the shadow of Truth. The sure supremeness of the Beautiful, By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch, Of peaceful commonwealths, where sunburnt Toil Reaps for itself the rich earth, made its own By its own labor, lightened with glad hymns Duty's sure recompense through life and death, - Reap, haply not on earth, but reap no less They stab fallen tyrants, this their high revenge: For their best part of life on earth is when, Long after death, prisoned and pent no more, Their thoughts, their wild dreams even, have become Part of the necessary air men breathe; When, like the moon, herself behind a cloud, They shed down light before us on life's sea, That cheers us to steer onward still in hope. All other glories are as falling stars, But universal Nature watches theirs : Such strength is won by love of human kind. Not that I feel that hunger after fame, Which souls of a half-greatness are beset with; But that the memory of noble deeds Cries, shame upon the idle and the vile, And keeps the heart of Man for ever up To be forgot at first is little pain A something which the world can do without, A cup of bitterness the worst to taste, And this thy heart shall empty to the dregs. Behold thy destiny! Thou think'st it much But I have braved a mightier than thou, Even the tempting of this soaring heart, To be down-trodden into darkness soon. Am what myself have made, a nature wise With finding in itself the types of all, With watching from the dim verge of the time Thrown forward on them from the luminous past, Wise with the history of its own frail heart, With reverence and sorrow, and with love, Broad as the world, for freedom and for man. Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love, By whom, and for whose glory, ye shall cease: |