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Then, welcome each rebuff
Be our joys three parts pain!
For thence a paradox
Which comforts while it mocks
Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:
What I aspired to be,
And was not, comforts me:
Thence shall I pass, approved
A man, for aye removed
From the developed brute; a God though in the germ.
And I shall thereupon
A brute I might have been, but would Take rest, ere I be gone
not sink i' the scale.
What is he but a brute
Whose flesh hath soul to suit,
Once more on my adventure brave and
Fearless and unperplexed,
When I wage battle next,
Whose spirit works lest arms and legs What weapons to select, what armor to
How far can that project thy soul on its My gain or loss thereby;
Yet gifts should prove their use:
I own the Past profuse
Of power each side, perfection every turn:
Eyes, ears took in their dole,
Brain treasured up the whole;
Be the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same,
Give life its praise or blame:
Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.
For note, when evening shuts,
Should not the heart beat once, "How A certain moment cuts
good to live and learn?"
Not once beat, "Praise be Thine!
I see the whole design,
I, who saw Power, shall see Love perfect
Perfect I call Thy plan:
Thanks that I was a man!
The deed off, calls the glory from the gray : A whisper from the west
Shoots, "Add this to the rest,
Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."
So, still within this life,
Though lifted o'er its strife,
Maker, remake, complete, I trust what Let me discern, compare, pronounce at
For more is not reserved
To man, with soul just nerved
gain most, as To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch
I strove, made head, gained ground upon
As the bird wings and sings,
The Master work, and catch
Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.
As it was better, youth
Should strive, through acts uncouth,
Toward making, than repose on aught All men ignored in me,
So, better, age, exempt
From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedst age; wait death nor be afraid!
Enough now, if the Right
And Good and Infinite
This I was worth to God, whose wheel
Ay, note that Potter's wheel,
Why time spins fast, why passive lies our
Thou, to whom fools propound,
Be named here, as thou callest thy hand When the wine makes its round,
With knowledge absolute,
Subject to no dispute
"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!"
From fools that crowded youth, nor let Fool! All that is, at all,
thee feel alone.
Be there, for once and all,
Severed great minds from small,
Lasts ever, past recall;
Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:
What entered into thee,
Announced to each his station in the That was, is, and shall be:
Was I, the world arraigned,
Right? Let age speak the truth and
Now, who shall arbitrate?
Ten men love what I hate,
Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.
He fixed thee mid this dance
Of plastic circumstance,
This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain
Machinery just meant
To give thy soul its bent,
Shun what I follow, slight what I re- Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently
Ten, who in ears and eyes
Match me we all surmise,
What though the earlier grooves
They, this thing, and I, that: whom shall Which ran the laughing loves
Look not thou down, but up!
Found straightway to its mind, could To uses of a cup,
value in a trice:
But all, the world's coarse thumb
And finger failed to plumb,
So passed in making up the main account;
All instincts immature,
All purposes unsure,
The festal board, lamp's flash, and trum-
The new wine's foaming flow,
Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what
That weighed not as his work, yet swelled But I need, now as then,
Fancies that broke through language and With shapes and colors rife,
A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders, that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford