Or where the rocking billows rise and sink There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast The desert and illimitable air Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, And clear the depths where its eddies play, The swifter current that mines its root, The quivering glimmer of sun and rill Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, With blossoms, and birds, and wild-bees' hum; Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; 20 20 The flowers of summer are fairest there, And sweetest the golden autumn day THE time has been that these wild soli- Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts, Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, And all was white. The pure keen air abroad, Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, 40 Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds, That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring, Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough, And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry The conqueror of nations, walks the world, And it is changed beneath his feet, and all Its kingdoms melt into one mighty realm Thou, while his head is loftiest and his heart Blasphemes, imagining his own right hand 40 Almighty, thou dost set thy sudden grasp Upon him, and the links of that strong chain Which bound mankind are crumbled; thou dost break Sceptre and crown, and beat his throne to dust. Then the earth shouts with gladness, and her tribes Gather within their ancient bounds again. Else had the mighty of the olden time, Nimrod, Sesostris, or the youth who feigned His birth from Libyan Ammon, smitten yet The nations with a rod of iron, and driven Their chariot o'er our necks. Thou dost avenge, 51 laughed 80 And leaped for joy to see a spotless fame His conscience to preserve a worthless life, Oft, too, dost thou reform thy victim, long Ere his last hour. And when the reveller, Mad in the chase of pleasure, stretches on, And strains each nerve, and clears the path of life 90 Had echoed with the blasphemous prayer and hymn: But thou, the great reformer of the world, Ere guilt had quite o'errun the simple heart God gave them at their birth, and blotted out 130 His image. Thou dost mark them flushed with hope, As on the threshold of their vast designs Doubtful and loose they stand, and strik’st them down.1 |