Ay, rare, indeed, in that day is his fate, If the eye of the prophet—so noble a trait— Escape from censure and gibe and hate. For an eye like his will a goal pursue So far in advance of his time and its view, That only the march of an age, forsooth, Can o’ertake the vision he sees in his youth. But, oh! in that age, when it comes, the earth Will live in his light and know of his worth. And many and many will be the men Who move on then, And about them find The scenes that he in his day divined, Who, sure of his presence, will know he is nigh, And feel he is leading, and never can die. This man of the monument lived like that. Men cheer him now; but of old they sat In judgment against him; while, far away From the place where they had chosen to stay, He push’d for the light; and grew old and hoar Ere one whom he knew had begun to explore, Or seek what he sought. Alone in the van, He had fail’d of aid had he thought it in man. VIII. Yet now are justice and judgment one. That statue glows in the gleam of the sun, Amid drumming and trumpeting, chorus and song, The praise of the speaker, the shout of the throng, Throned white o’er the waving of plumes and of flags That surge to its base as a sea to her crags. Now cheer we the monument, capp’d and clear’d, So cheer we the man for whom it is rear’d. IX. What? cheer we the man? No doubt, in youth There were times when the joy in his heart overran At a smile from one who knew him in truth; There were times, years later, when merely a tear From a grateful eye Would have seem’d more dear Than all the glitter that gold could buy; But, alas! in age, when character stands As fix’d as yon monument, then it demands, Ere aught can move it, far more, far more Than the cheer or the sigh that had stirr’d it of yore. Not oft, nor till ages of suns and storms Have wrought with the verdure in earthly forms, Are these turn’d into stone, no more to decay. But often on earth The owners of worth That men image in marble grow stony, that way. Ah, man, whom in hardship you might make a friend And turn from—beware, beware in the end, Lest he whom you harden grow hard unto you. O world, when ready your hero to cheer, How heeds he your welcome? say, what does he do? His eye, does it see? his ear, does it hear? His heart, does it throb? his pulse, does it thrill? Or his touch, is it cold? his clasp, is it chill?— O world, you have waited long; what have you done? O man, you have wrought so long; what have you won?— X. That monument there, So high, so fair, That throne of light for the man who led, Is only a tomb. They are cheering the dead. XI.