  Of the dumb, bayed god in men, Of the burdened mother eyes, Of the little, lifted hands, Of the passion and the dream Sighing up from trodden lands, Fearless, he is born again; Bold inquisitor of skies, Treading earth unmastered, free, And the way grows wide for him Walking with the day to be. Dead the grasp of custom then, Silent grows her voice and pen; Part as air the birth-wrong bands, Break as thread the steel-drawn strands, Dust is dust and men are men; A living tongue again gives living law. Trophies ours by gold and gun, Little treasures, houses,—nay, Guerdons of our dearest fight, Now are fuel for his sun, And the dreams that lit the night Burn as candles in the day. Yet we made thee, Man of Right, As our being plead to rise; Of our straining arm thy might; Even as we prayed for sight, Lo, afar thou hadst thy prophet eyes. Ay, thy gleaming spear is ours; Ours thy fearless, golden bow; And our shining arrows go From thy bright untaken towers. Thou art what we will to be, Sceptre, star, and wingÈd cloud; Glowing up through sod and stone, Burning through thy rended shroud, Moving with thee, chainless, on, Till the world, a quickened whole, Truth-delivered, naked, free, Once again hath found its deathless soul. |
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