No stronger purpose nerves the will, No hope renews its youth again : From farm to farm the Concord glides, And trails my fancy with its flow; O'erhead the balanced henhawk slides, Twinned in the river's heaven below.
But go, whose Bay State bosom stirs, Proud of thy birth and neighbor's right, Where sleep the heroic villagers Borne red and stiff from Concord fight; Thought Reuben, snatching down his gun, Or Seth, as ebbed the life away,
What earthquake rifts would shoot and run World-wide from that short April fray?
What then? With heart and hand they wrought,
According to their village light;
'Twas for the Future that they fought, Their rustic faith in what was right. Upon earth's tragic stage they burst Unsummoned, in the humble sock; Theirs the fifth act; the curtain first Rose long ago on Charles's block.
Their graves have voices; if they threw Dice charged with fates beyond their ken, Yet to their instincts they were true, And had the genius to be men. Fine privilege of Freedom's host, Of even foot-soldiers for the Right !— For centuries dead, ye are not lost,
Your graves send courage forth, and might.
WE, too, have autumns, when our leaves Drop loosely through the dampened air, When all our good seems bound in sheaves, And we stand reaped and bare.
Our seasons have no fixed returns, Without our will they come and go; At noon our sudden summer burns, Ere sunset all is snow.
But each day brings less summer cheer, Crimps more our ineffectual spring, And something earlier every year Our singing birds take wing.
As less the olden glow abides,
And less the chillier heart aspires, With drift-wood beached in past spring-tides We light our sullen fires.
By the pinched rushlight's starving beam We cower and strain our wasted sight, To stitch youth's shroud up, seam by seam, In the long arctic night.
It was not so-we once were young
When Spring, to womanly Summer turning, Her dew-drops on each grass-blade strung, In the red sunrise burning.
We trusted then, aspired, believed
That earth could be remade to-morrow;— Ah, why be ever undeceived?
Why give up faith for sorrow?
O thou, whose days are yet all spring, Faith, blighted once, is past retrieving; Experience is a dumb, dead thing; The victory's in believing.
ARE we, then, wholly fallen? Can it be That thou, North wind, that from thy mountains bringest
Their spirit to our plains, and thou, blue sea, Who on our rocks thy wreaths of freedom flingest, As on an altar,-can it be that ye
Have wasted inspiration on dead ears,
Dulled with the too familiar clank of chains? The people's heart is like a harp for years Hung where some petrifying torrent rains Its slow-incrusting spray: the stiffened chords Faint and more faint make answer to the tears That drip upon them: idle are all words; Only a silver plectrum wakes the tone Deep buried 'neath that ever-thickening stone.
We are not free: Freedom doth not consist In musing with our faces toward the Past, While petty cares, and crawling interests, twist Their spider-threads about us, which at last Grow strong as iron chains, to cramp and bind In formal narrowness heart, soul, and mind. Freedom is recreated year by year,
In hearts wide open on the Godward side, In souls calm-cadenced as the whirling sphere, In minds that sway the future like a tide. No broadest creeds can hold her, and no codes; She chooses men for her august abodes, Building them fair and fronting to the dawn; Yet, when we seek her, we but find a few
Light footprints, leading morn-ward through the
Before the day had risen, she was gone.
And we must follow: swiftly runs she on, And, if our steps should slacken in despair, Half turns her face, half smiles through golden hair,
Forever yielding, never wholly won:
That is not love which pauses in the race
Two close-linked names on fleeting sand to trace ; Freedom gained yesterday is no more ours; Men gather but dry seeds of last year's flowers; Still there's a charm ungranted, still a grace, Still rosy Hope, the free, the unattained, Makes us Possession's languid hand let fall; 'Tis but a fragment of ourselves is gained,- The Future brings us more, but never all.
And, as the finder of some unknown realm, Mounting a summit whence he thinks to see On either side of him the imprisoning sea, Beholds, above the clouds that overwhelm The valley-land, peak after snowy peak Stretch out of sight, each like a silver helm Beneath its plume of smoke, sublime and bleak, And what he thought an island finds to be A continent to him first oped,-so we Can from our height of Freedom look along A boundless future, ours if we be strong; Or if we shrink, better remount our ships And, fleeing God's express design, trace back The hero-freighted Mayflower's prophet-track To Europe, entering her blood-red eclipse.
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