Ingrate, we give no thought

To all these golden things

The toiling past hath brought,

The toiling present brings.

But on this silent shore

And waste barbarian,

We hear the engines roar

And mind the might of man.

So one in savage lands:

He enters all alone;

No weapon in his hands.

The secret spears unthrown,

The creepers lose their guile,

Seeing his face, distrest

They know not why. A smile,

A sign or two, a jest,

And all on bended knees

Withhold the savage stroke.

With beating heart he sees

The lessening steamer-smoke.

He draws a power to be

From powers sacrificed;

And in his eyes we see

The teaching of the Christ,

And all the great beside,

The oracles of time

From Delphic clefts have cried

Or crasht in thundering rhyme.

A book his finger parts;

He moves thro’ adverse cries;

Master of many arts

And careless of the skies.

What are thy mighty deeds,

O Past, thy gains, O Time?

A dust of ruin’d creeds,

A scroll or two of rhyme?

A temple earthquake-dasht?

A false record of things?

A picture lightning-flasht

Of cruel eyes of kings?

No, these: a wiser rule;

A science of ampler span;

A heart more pitiful;

More mind; a nobler man.