The soul in reverence may kneel to it, Yield all to it.—So may my neighbors reign, And I may be their slave, yet own myself; And deify, while I defy my pride! LXIV. A new conversion, say you?—call it so. The truth converts one oft, if he be true. The true man loves his own, and fights for it; And, since his own is little and God’s is large, He often fights to fall. Yet ranks on high Now throng with heroes, whose too slender blades Were wielded but for slender causes once; Nor sheathed, ere flying shatter’d from their grasp, Till truth they fought had proven too strong for them. Then, when they knew themselves, and knew the truth, And knew its mercy too, they loved the truth, And came to be its champions, evermore. So now with me: rebellious though I was, Rebellion wrought my rescue. Truth triumphant Enlisted duty for a loyalty That made all life seem lordlike. Work began. Thank God, we all have heads above our hearts; And, if we let them reason with us well, They rule us for our best. LXV. What Elbert wish’d, When first I cross’d the sea, was more than wrought. I brought back not alone what books could give, But in myself a sense of others’ wants,— For in my heart a wondrous wealth of love; Ay, wealth it was; though, like the ore in mines, It only proved that that which lived had died. What though my life, complete with her alone, Seem’d always rent? a weight of broken quartz That only gleam’d where it had fractur’d been? That weight was wealth that sparkled back to greet Each glance of sunshine. Thus I found that love At times may prove a treasure even dead, If dead enough in spirits yet alive. Mine, thwarted so, had made me more the man That Elbert wish’d,—a man for all mankind;— No special pleader for a special class Whose grasping greed crowds out the general good;— But one who pleads for all fair rights for all. Nor would I bide content with utter’d words. Too often, these, when widest welcomed, wake But echoes brief as breath from which they spring. I craved the mission less of roaring waves Than of the rare wrought shells that, evermore, When storms are gone, suggest their living presence. LXVI.