With the world-wide wind, with the breath That breaks ships driven upon death, With the passion of all things free, With the sea-steeds footless and frantic, White myriads for death to bestride In the charge of the ruining Atlantic Where deaths by regiments ride, With clouds and clamors of waters, With a long note shriller than slaughter's On the furrowless fields world-wide, With terror, with ardor and wonder, With the soul of the season that wakes When the weight of a whole year's thunder In the tidestream of autumn breaks, Let the flight of the wide-winged word Come over, come in and be heard. Take form and fire for our sakes. For a continent bloodless with travail And fain be free, but they know not One name, not twain for division; Worth more than worship is worth; The secret and sense of the earth. Here as a weakling in irons, Here as a weanling in bands As a prey that the stake-net environs, Our life that we looked for stands: And the man-child naked and dear, Democracy, turns on us here Eyes trembling, with tremulous han is, It sees not what season shall bring to it Sweet fruit of its bitter desire; Few voices it hears yet sing to it, Few pulses of hearts reaspire: Foresees not time, nor forehears The noises of imminent years, Earthquake, and thunder, and fire: When crowned and weaponed and curbless It shall walk without helm or shield The bare burnt furrows and herbless Of war's last flame-stricken field, In the godhead of man revealed. Round your people and over them Swim, sink, strike out for the dawn. Chains are here, and a prison, Kings, and subjects, and shame: If the God upon you be arisen, How should our songs be the same? God is buried and dead to us, The earth-god Freedom, the lonely Face lightening, the footprint unshod. Not as one man crucified only Nor scourged with but one life's rod : The soul that is substance of nations, Reincarnate with fresh generations; The great god Man, which is God. But in weariest of years and obscurest Freedom we call it, for holier Name of the soul's there is none; Surelier it labors, if slowlier, Than the metres of star or of sun; Slowlier than life unto breath, Surelier than time unto death, It moves till its labor be done. Till the motion be done and the measure Circling through season and clime, Slumber and sorrow and pleasure, Vision of virtue and crime; Till consummate with conquering eyes, A soul disembodied, it rise From the body transfigured of time. Till it rise and remain and take station With the stars of the world that re joice; Till the voice of its heart's exultation It is one with the world's generations, With the cross, and the chain, and the rod : The most high, the most secret, most lonely, The earth-soul Freedom, that only Lives, and that only is God. 1871. |