  Who is to rise and hurl God's flame world-wide, As Lincoln hurled it, setting free a race From Sphinx-shaped wrong—a beast with human face? That shattered, how our land rose glorified And, from the stars last laggard, soared, their guide! Oh, who can take Promethean Lincoln's place, To bring light where-so-ever he can trace A Human, with his rights to soul denied? He must be one, not only to illume All ages, and not leave one region dim, But at no height, allow his senses swim, Or let mirages lure him with false bloom. Lo! Here one comes with all the virtues prim To hurl God's fire and end all human gloom. II'Tis Wilson takes God's flame from Lincoln's hand. This Princeton man,—who has outgrown the prince, A hundred years, and, in the ocean since, Seen with delight, Eternity expand And loom in glory from the despot's strand,— Shapes fourteen dazzling bolts without a wince. He pauses. Why not hurl them and convince The world that, hence-forth, not one thrall shall stand? What! Wilson's arm lacks strength to hurl the flame, God gave to Lincoln for the Human race? Look! Look! it falls. What! Gone? Quenched by dark space? No; it describes an orbit there, the same As comets, and regains its heavenly place For one to hurl it true, and doom Earth's Shame. |
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