  O, thou, the fierce englamored, Hence, at never cease, invoked of man, Who, in the vast procession of the sybil days, Holds up the light he fain would follow, but may not conceive; Whose boundless charter and whose nameless goal outpasseth Time:— Hast thou, on sufferance of thy liege, the Truth The Same, unwearied on whose fiat waits the mutinous Dark, Whose breath, withal, fans bright the spheres, Concords the music of their millioned primes; Whose utter Essence, tho’ in substance clad, Yon skies contain not, tho’ the heart may hold:— Hast thou, the warrant winked-at, yet the trust, supreme, On behalf of privilege that might all beseech— Some love past limit, save its ever self— Hast thou, thus, wandered from those shores afar, Thy starry synods and the hosting lights, To meet thine image in these mortal ways, So fangled, paltried, and so bitter small— Thine mighty image, which no shadow frets— Such slave to glozing aspect and rude things of Here, So pent in durance to the marble law, whose nurse are grim coercion and the bloody hand? But, shalt thou not change it, till its lines enlarge, False take-offs dwindle, and their craft stand out, Nor mate vain-glory for vile thrift of both, And fierce engendering of their dwarfish breed? Shalt thou not change it, let Fame’s note come true; For her brazen trumpet the small silvery flute, Which draws its heart-strains from the pith of Just, And winds accordant with the patient soul? Shall its gloried flame not whiter burn, The snuff and dross attract no more, Set lurid off thy streaming torch, Whose glow and essence than the sun-paths fed, Outpeers the lustre of their myriad fount, The solemn, fiery-bearing, the uncompassed Night? Yea, shalt thou not change it, bid thine features grow, The lines more matching, scope and plan more true, Dispel refraction and all hemming False, Which, girt with mortal tribulation, hang Their warping shadows twixt the Light and thee? Shall Great be greater not, tho’ it lowly comes, The reward o’ertook not ere the Right say well? Shalt thou sink hellward not the sorry law, Which bids rude Strength—be it brain, or brawn’s— Sit, lofty scorning, by the counseling heart, So unaccompanied place its monstrous tribute at vain Feet of pride, and brutish idols of the adoring sense, On specious plea of covetous ambition—all its rage to have and wield— Give wage to sorrow than be frankly served By lasting wisdom and the patient hope, While Policy and Smug Expedience wink Fresh Cues at all? Shall thy fair likeness not refigured speak, Each trait come moulded t’ward this crowning True— That, Mind, the mightiest, shall outsee itself, No gift, not servant, round more full the Soul, Nor in the bounteous equipment find The meanest haughty crest, nay tricksiest spur upon that crest, Whereon to hang the damned assurance of a law Exempting answer to the gauging Just; But from the grace and undeserved oblation draw, Bring heavenly down—whether in man or men, In gathered Nations, or the singler few— Fresh-purposed to the will, fresh trusting And sustaining there, the guardian angel of humility, The lifting spirit of the thankful heart? Shalt thou not make it goodly clear, ’Tis not Endeavor which alone achieves, Save as it aim averts not, but for grace upholds, Crowns true some spirit, would set struggling forth, At vast contention and in emulous pride, Yon speechless comment which the Hopes give out, For fresh construction of the rigid text, The nice enactment, tho’ dispiteous code, Whose leased expression and whose outward sum Are Nature’s equities and ways about? Ay, shall thus, fresh copied not, thine image shine; Shalt thou not thus acquit thyself, re-message Faith, The act affirm her, and the daily thought, Full-knowing that her life lies there, and only hostage unto groping man? Shalt thou not thus draw gracious near, Till all hearts enfold thee, and, in their rude despite, The scoring Fates cry wondering out, “Our worst is done; there is now no more; Our record writes itself, to justice dedicate And happy Good.” If not—alas, misprision and the futile trust! If not—if Destiny still a boggler stand, Knows Hence from Hither, nor which way were best, If yet the rude purveyor, Time, Finds in the vast commission and despatch of him, In his prospects and his comings-on, The near or far, unfeatured still that dream of thee, No Perfect ever, scarce thy better there, But that blots shall lasting stain it, give it Fresh relief, traduce the glory he had meant Hold forth; if yet the Vain come worshipped, And the Brute must thrive, more subtly nourished, But its breed the same, while the Free, Tho’ of outward credit, wear a golden clog, Pollutes his title, and defaults the heart: In few, if Fact be consecrate, the Brain its God, No Faith to hallow, save what Reason hold, Rank-rooting never in no soil but Self, Till Hope, an exile—say she breathe at all— Strangered and out of rights, eats her own heart, In weary banishment and quail of man:— If this be so, if that could be—were it better not, Thus tricked and thwarted of thy clearer self, This Present, pathless, with worse maze before— Were it better not, white days should cease them, And the Stars to roll, invite disruption, and, thro’ wrack Of things, with leveling |
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