  The gentle word has gone abroad, and on mens’ lips A tremor hangs, a gladness flutters at the kindly sound, As, at fond repeat, with gathered tone, the quaver slips On swelling heart-heaves ’bout the world’s round, Charms to its strain the aliens ’t tongue, In yon same music which the high Hopes know, Since, true to wisdom, their brave cheer was sung, Confounding Darkness where the dim Doubts go. And shall heart not heed it, nor its welcome plight; This cup, not feast it, match its deep propose? Unpledging riot, shall the brutal Might Not own the Fountain whence all fathom draws? Bathe sweet those gashes and the bitter bruise, Shall Strength, not holding of her heavyhand, Unleague all compact, which, to spite the Truce, Made Hell confederate with her blind command; Let new days deck her in a nobler wreath, A serener vision lift that groveling brow, Duress and rancor, while they bated breathe, Against some Presence where the deep Fates bow, And, veiled speakers, with mute lay-on hands Ordain, atoning, while the sky-paths chime, In anthems swelling past their starren strands, That ever postulant, sore-vicared Time. Why then—shall Hope not speak it, find no moan was lost, She, whose heave of sorrow bade the Destinies shrive, Say why her ventures came so sorely tossed, So hard at sea, till Faith did question their at-all arrive? Shall Hope not find it—how Mistrust was out, Yon fierce old reckoner, whose too absolute course And wary checkings by his peer, the Doubt, Still foul the bearings of the archer Source? For, has Peace not spoken? on men’s lips Hangs not a quaver, like some Gladness there, Some soothing spirit, from whose balm-wing slips, Fanned wide, this message, it would brothering bear? Has Peace not spoken, has the gentle word, Invoking, blessed not the ear again? Has Earth not witnessed, not the Heavens heard, Its joy fall healing on the hearts of men? |
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