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, 220 Feeling its challenged pulses leap, 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 passion breathe When other crowns grow, while we twine them, sear. What brings us thronging these high rites to pay, And seal these hours the noblest of our year, Save that our brothers found this better way? VIII 231 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, And many races, nameless long ago, 281 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; By lonely bivouacs to the wakeful mind; 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 noble anger's height, And, flamed on by the Fates, not shrink, but grow more bright, That swift validity in noble veins, 320 Of choosing danger and disdaining shame, Of being set on flame By the pure fire that flies all contact Not in anger, not in pride, Pure from passion's mixture rude 350 But with far-heard gratitude, Still with heart and voice renewed, Lift the heart and lift the head! 'T is no Man we celebrate, 360 A hero half, and half the whim of Fate, 370 Plays o'er her mouth, as round her mighty knees She calls her children back, and waits the morn Of nobler day, enthroned between her subject seas.' XII Bow down, dear Land, for thou hast found release! Thy God, in these distempered days, Hath taught thee the sure wisdom of His ways, And through thine enemies hath wrought thy peace! 410 Bow down in prayer and praise ! 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, What were our lives without thee? We will not dare to doubt thee, 421 1 See Lowell's letter sent with these verses, February 27, 1867, in the Letters, vol. i, pp. 378, 379. In this letter a stanza was added to the poem : A gift of symbol-flowers I meant to bring, (Life of Longfellow, vol. iii, p. 84.) 'The leaves wherein true wisdom lies On living trees the sun are drinking; Those white clouds, drowsing through the skies, Grew not so beautiful by thinking. "Come out!" with me the oriole cries, Escape the demon that pursues you! And, hark, the cuckoo weatherwise, Still hiding farther onward, wooes you.' 'Alas, dear friend, that, all my days, Hast poured from that syringa thicket 30 The quaintly discontinuous lays To which I hold a season-ticket, A season-ticket cheaply bought 'Deem me not faithless, if all day 'I ask no ampler skies than those His magic music rears above me, |