Long as man's hope insatiate can discern Or only guess some more inspiring goal 210 Outside of Self, enduring as the pole, Along whose course the flying axles burn Of spirits bravely pitched, earth's manlier brood, Long as below we cannot find The meed that stills the inexorable mind; So long this faith to some ideal Good, Under whatever mortal names it masks, Freedom, Law, Country, this ethereal mood That thanks the Fates for their severer tasks, Feeling its challenged pulses leap, 220 While others skulk in subterfuges cheap, And, set in Danger's van, has all the boon it asks, Shall win man's praise and woman's love, Shall be a wisdom that we set above All other skills and gifts to culture dear, A virtue round whose forehead we inwreathe Laurels that with a living pa.s.sion breathe When other crowns grow, while we twine them, sear.

What brings us thronging these high rites to pay, And seal these hours the n.o.blest of our year, 230 Save that our brothers found this better way?

VIII

We sit here in the Promised Land That flows with Freedom's honey and milk; But 'twas they won it, sword in hand, Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk.

We welcome back our bravest and our best;-- Ah me! not all! some come not with the rest, Who went forth brave and bright as any here!

I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, But the sad strings complain, 240 And will not please the ear: I sweep them for a paean, but they wane Again and yet again Into a dirge, and die away, in pain.

In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps, Dark to the triumph which they died to gain: Fitlier may others greet the living, For me the past is unforgiving; I with uncovered head 250 Salute the sacred dead, Who went, and who return not.--Say not so!

'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay, But the high faith that failed not by the way; Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave; No ban of endless night exiles the brave; And to the saner mind We rather seem the dead that stayed behind.

Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow!

For never shall their aureoled presence lack: 260 I see them muster in a gleaming row, With ever-youthful brows that n.o.bler show; We find in our dull road their shining track; In every n.o.bler mood We feel the orient of their spirit glow, Part of our life's unalterable good, Of all our saintlier aspiration; They come transfigured back, Secure from change in their high-hearted ways, Beautiful evermore, and with the rays 270 Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation!

IX

But is there hope to save Even this ethereal essence from the grave?

What ever 'scaped Oblivion's subtle wrong Save a few clarion names, or golden threads of song?

Before my musing eye The mighty ones of old sweep by, Disvoiced now and insubstantial things, As noisy once as we; poor ghosts of kings, Shadows of empire wholly gone to dust, 280 And many races, nameless long ago, To darkness driven by that imperious gust Of ever-rushing Time that here doth blow: O visionary world, condition strange, Where naught abiding is but only Change, Where the deep-bolted stars themselves still shift and range!

Shall we to more continuance make pretence?

Renown builds tombs, a life-estate is Wit; And, bit by bit, The cunning years steal all from us but woe; 290 Leaves are we, whose decays no harvest sow.

But, when we vanish hence, Shall they lie forceless in the dark below, Save to make green their little length of souls, Or deepen pansies for a year or two, Who now to us are shining-sweet as G.o.ds?

Was dying all they had the skill to do?

That were not fruitless: but the Soul resents Such short-lived service, as if blind events Ruled without her, or earth could so endure; 300 She claims a more divine invest.i.ture Of longer tenure than Fame's airy rents; Whate'er she touches doth her nature share; Her inspiration haunts the enn.o.bled air, Gives eyes to mountains blind, Ears to the deaf earth, voices to the wind, And her clear trump slugs succor everywhere By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful mind; For soul inherits all that soul could dare: Yea, Manhood hath a wider span 310 And larger privilege of life than man.

The single deed, the private sacrifice, So radiant now through proudly-hidden tears, Is covered up erelong from mortal eyes With thoughtless drift of the deciduous years; But that high privilege that makes all men peers, That leap of heart whereby a people rise Up to a n.o.ble anger's height, And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, but grow more bright, That swift validity in n.o.ble veins, 320 Of choosing danger and disdaining shame, Of being set on flame By the pure fire that flies all contact base But wraps its chosen with angelic might, These are imperishable gains, Sure as the sun, medicinal as light, These hold great futures in their l.u.s.ty reins And certify to earth a new imperial race.

X

Who now shall sneer?

Who dare again to say we trace 330 Our lines to a plebeian race?

Roundhead and Cavalier!

Dumb are those names erewhile in battle loud; Dream-footed as the shadow of a cloud, They flit across the ear: That is best blood that hath most iron in 't, To edge resolve with, pouring without stint For what makes manhood dear.

Tell us not of Plantagenets, Hapsburgs, and Guelfs, whose thin bloods crawl 340 Down from some victor in a border-brawl!

How poor their outworn coronets, Matched with one leaf of that plain civic wreath Our brave for honor's blazon shall bequeath, Through whose desert a rescued Nation sets Her heel on treason, and the trumpet hears Shout victory, tingling Europe's sullen ears With vain resentments and more vain regrets!

XI

Not in anger, not in pride, Pure from pa.s.sion's mixture rude 350 Ever to base earth allied, But with far-heard grat.i.tude, Still with heart and voice renewed, To heroes living and dear martyrs dead, The strain should close that consecrates our brave.

Lift the heart and lift the head!

Lofty be its mood and grave, Not without a martial ring, Not without a prouder tread And a peal of exultation: 360 Little right has he to sing Through whose heart in such an hour Beats no march of conscious power, Sweeps no tumult of elation!

'Tis no Man we celebrate, By his country's victories great, A hero half, and half the whim of Fate, But the pith and marrow of a Nation Drawing force from all her men, Highest, humblest, weakest, all, 370 For her time of need, and then Pulsing it again through them, Till the basest can no longer cower, Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall, Touched but in pa.s.sing by her mantle-hem.

Come back, then, n.o.ble pride, for 'tis her dower!

How could poet ever tower, If his pa.s.sions, hopes, and fears, If his triumphs and his tears, Kept not measure with his people? 380 Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves!

Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple!

Banners, adance with triumph, bend your staves!

And from every mountain-peak Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak, Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he, And so leap on in light from sea to sea, Till the glad news be sent Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver: 390 'Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her!

She that lifts up the manhood of the poor, She of the open soul and open door, With room about her hearth for all mankind!

The fire is dreadful in her eyes no more; From her bold front the helm she doth unbind, Sends all her handmaid armies back to spin, And bids her navies, that so lately hurled Their crashing battle, hold their thunders in, Swimming like birds of calm along the unharmful sh.o.r.e. 400 No challenge sends she to the elder world, That looked askance and hated; a light scorn Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty knees She calls her children back, and waits the morn Of n.o.bler day, enthroned between her subject seas.'

XII

Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release!

Thy G.o.d, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of his ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace!

Bow down in prayer and praise! 410 No poorest in thy borders but may now Lift to the juster skies a man's enfranchised brow.

O Beautiful! my Country! ours once more!

Smoothing thy gold of war-dishevelled hair O'er such sweet brows as never other wore, And letting thy set lips, Freed from wrath's pale eclipse, The rosy edges of their smile lay bare, What words divine of lover or of poet Could tell our love and make thee know it, 420 Among the Nations bright beyond compare?

What were our lives without thee?

What all our lives to save thee?

We reck not what we gave thee; We will not dare to doubt thee, But ask whatever else, and we will dare!

L'ENVOI

TO THE MUSE

Whither? Albeit I follow fast, In all life's circuit I but find, Not where thou art, but where thou wast, Sweet beckoner, more fleet than wind!

I haunt the pine-dark solitudes, With soft brown silence carpeted, And plot to snare thee in the woods: Peace I o'ertake, but thou art fled!

I find the rock where thou didst rest, The moss thy skimming foot hath prest; 10 All Nature with thy parting thrills, Like branches after birds new-flown; Thy pa.s.sage hill and hollow fills With hints of virtue not their own; In dimples still the water slips Where thou hast dipt thy finger-tips; Just, just beyond, forever burn Gleams of a grace without return; Upon thy shade I plant my foot, And through my frame strange raptures shoot; 20 All of thee but thyself I grasp; I seem to fold thy luring shape, And vague air to my bosom clasp, Thou lithe, perpetual Escape!

One mask and then another drops, And thou art secret as before; Sometimes with flooded ear I list, And hear thee, wondrous organist, From mighty continental stops A thunder of new music pour; 30 Through pipes of earth and air and stone Thy inspiration deep is blown; Through mountains, forests, open downs, Lakes, railroads, prairies, states, and towns, Thy gathering fugue goes rolling on From Maine to utmost Oregon; The factory-wheels in cadence hum, From brawling parties concords come; All this I hear, or seem to hear, But when, enchanted, I draw near 40 To mate with words the various theme, Life seems a whiff of kitchen steam, History an organ-grinder's thrum, For thou hast slipt from it and me And all thine organ-pipes left dumb, Most mutable Perversity!

Not weary yet, I still must seek, And hope for luck next day, next week; I go to see the great man ride, Shiplike, the swelling human tide 50 That floods to bear him into port, Trophied from Senate-hall and Court; Thy magnetism, I feel it there, Thy rhythmic presence fleet and rare, Making the Mob a moment fine With glimpses of their own Divine, As in their demiG.o.d they see Their cramped ideal soaring free; 'Twas thou didst bear the fire about, That, like the springing of a mine, 60 Sent up to heaven the street-long shout; Full well I know that thou wast here, It was thy breath that brushed my ear; But vainly in the stress and whirl I dive for thee, the moment's pearl.

Through every shape thou well canst run, Proteus, 'twixt rise and set of sun, Well pleased with logger-camps in Maine As where Milan's pale Duomo lies A stranded glacier on the plain, 70 Its peaks and pinnacles of ice Melted in many a quaint device, And sees, above the city's din, Afar its silent Alpine kin: I track thee over carpets deep To wealth's and beauty's inmost keep; Across the sand of bar-room floors Mid the stale reek of boosing boors; Where browse the hay-field's fragrant heats, Or the flail-heart of Autumn beats; 80 I dog thee through the market's throngs To where the sea with myriad tongues Laps the green edges of the pier, And the tall ships that eastward steer, Curtsy their farewells to the town, O'er the curved distance lessening down: I follow allwhere for thy sake, Touch thy robe's hem, but ne'er o'ertake, Find where, scarce yet unmoving, lies, Warm from thy limbs, thy last disguise; 90 But thou another shape hast donned, And lurest still just, just beyond!

But here a voice, I know not whence, Thrills clearly through my inward sense, Saying: 'See where she sits at home While thou in search of her dost roam!

All summer long her ancient wheel Whirls humming by the open door, Or, when the hickory's social zeal Sets the wide chimney in a roar, 100 Close-nestled by the tinkling hearth, It modulates the household mirth With that sweet serious undertone Of duty, music all her own; Still as of old she sits and spins Our hopes, our sorrows, and our sins; With equal care she twines the fates Of cottages and mighty states; She spins the earth, the air, the sea, The maiden's unschooled fancy free, 110 The boy's first love, the man's first grief, The budding and the fall o' the leaf; The piping west-wind's snowy care For her their cloudy fleeces spare, Or from the thorns of evil times She can glean wool to twist her rhymes; Morning and noon and eve supply To her their fairest tints for dye, But ever through her twirling thread There spires one line of warmest red, 120 Tinged from the homestead's genial heart, The stamp and warrant of her art; With this Time's sickle she outwears, And blunts the Sisters' baffled shears.

'Hara.s.s her not: thy heat and stir But greater coyness breed in her; Yet thou mayst find, ere Age's frost, Thy long apprenticeship not lost, Learning at last that Stygian Fate Unbends to him that knows to wait. 130 The Muse is womanish, nor deigns Her love to him that pules and plains; With proud, averted face she stands To him that wooes with empty hands.

Make thyself free of Manhood's guild; Pull down thy barns and greater build; The wood, the mountain, and the plain Wave breast-deep with the poet's grain; Pluck thou the sunset's fruit of gold, Glean from the heavens and ocean old; 140 From fireside lone and trampling street Let thy life garner daily wheat; The epic of a man rehea.r.s.e, Be something better than thy verse; Make thyself rich, and then the Muse Shall court thy precious interviews, Shall take thy head upon her knee, And such enchantment lilt to thee, That thou shalt hear the life-blood flow From farthest stars to gra.s.s-blades low, 150 And find the Listener's science still Transcends the Singer's deepest skill!'

THE CATHEDRAL

To

MR. JAMES T. FIELDS

MY DEAR FIELDS: