When the roused popular ocean foamed and chafed, And vulture War from his Imaus Snuffed blood, to summon homely Peace, And show that only order is release. To carve thy fullest thought, what though Time was not granted? Aye in history, Like that Dawn's face which baffled Angelo, Left shapeless, grander for its mystery, Thy great Design shall stand, and day Flood its blind front from Orients far away. Who says thy day is o'er? Control, My heart, that bitter first emotion; If France reject thee, 'tis not thine, No fitting metewand hath To-day For measuring spirits of thy stature,Only the Future can reach up to lay The laurel on that lofty nature,— Bard, who with some diviner art Has touched the bard's true lyre, a nation's heart. Swept by thy hand, the gladdened chords, Crashed now in discords fierce by others, Gave forth one note beyond all skill of words, And chimed together, We are brothers. O poem unsurpassed! it ran All round the world, unlocking man to man. France is too poor to pay alone The service of that ample spirit ; Paltry seem low dictatorship and throne, If balanced with thy simple merit. They had to thee been rust and loss; Thy aim was higher,—thou hast climbed a Cross. TO JOHN G. PALFREY. THERE are who triumph in a losing cause, Who can put on defeat, as 'twere a wreath Unwithering in the adverse popular breath, Safe from the blasting demagogue's applause; 'Tis they who stand for Freedom and God's laws. And so stands Palfrey now, as Marvell stood, Fearfully watering with his realm's best blood Cromwell's quenched bolts, that erst had cracked and flamed, Scaring, through all their depths of courtier mud, Europe's crowned bloodsuckers,-how ashamed Ought we to be, who see Corruption's flood O utter degradation! Freedom turned And we are silent, we who daily tread more Beckon no more, shades of the noble dead! Be dumb, ye heaven-touched lips of winds and waves! Or hope to rouse some Coptic dullard, hid Beauty and Truth, and all that these contain, Without long struggle, none did e'er attain The downward look from Quiet's blissful seat: Though present loss may be the hero's part, Yet none can rob him of the victor heart Whereby the broad-realmed future is subdued, And Wrong, which now insults from triumph's car, Sending her vulture hope to raven far, Is made unwilling tributary of Good. O Mother State, how quenched thy Sinai fires! Is there none left of thy staunch Mayflower breed? No spark among the ashes of thy sires, Of Virtue's altar-flame the kindling seed? Are these thy great men, these that cringe and creep, And writhe through slimy ways to place and power ?— How long, O Lord, before thy wrath shall reap Our frail-stemmed summer prosperings in their flower? O for one hour of that undaunted stock O for a whiff of Naseby, that would sweep, |