  decorative SLUMBER not! Rest not! Dream not! Thou art called! The blast has rung out o'er thy living grave; The clouds that hung so low above thy head Poured out their flame into thy soul, and yet Left more, much more alive there than thou knewest of. Awake! the years stand at thy gate, and knock To call thee forth, the dead past comes to life, And drives thee, with its flood of whirling waters, Onward to action, not to idle dreaming. Trust thine own strength, and tread the flakes of foam Lightly, with wingÈd feet, with wingÈd soul! And thou shalt see that gales have left untouched The springtime in thy heart, still breaking forth In admiration, thankfulness and love. Yes, not even love is quenched, and still undimmed Enthusiasm's banner waves on high above thee. Thou fearest the world? And what then is the world? The shadow of a cloud—no more. Thou wouldst not Suffer it to become a stone to crush thee? Up! Shake thy shining wings upon the Dawn, And laugh the world to shame. 'Tis but a pageant, In all its fulness—never to the world! And though the world should crush thine heart and say "Behold! 'tis dust and ashes!"—though it scatter Those ashes to the winds—yet art thou still Pure and unconquerable, O my heart! Thou art of those to whom an open foe Is but a friend disguised; to whom each blow Serves as a force to send thee ever higher, Far above yawning gulf and raging whirlpool. O heart of mine, be strong! Doubt not, for doubt Was ever the one deadly foe, whose toils Might strangle thee. Up! fight that monster, trample Its venom under foot. The hour has come A new Sir Galahad, brave, pure and strong, Around whom angels hover as he stretches His spotless shield to meet the early rays Of Heaven's bright, cloudless, joyous Morning-sun! |
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