Yet there, even there, evermore, Since first streameth a dawn, Hardy and wild, tho' ungrown, Tolling his death-song, muffling their lore, The brave lyrics of life, Speeds not the strife, Stalks not the War? As he moody fulfills those inscrutable Wills-- At one hand, the Spirit's, on the other, the Sod's, That anointed of Gods; Here, that fierce purger, the Truth's, There, the healing, the infinite Ruth's, Divinely at odds-- Those miracled Twain, Deep-twinning, past name, From whose life-streaming well, Whose concept and womb, Floweth birth-song and knell, Issue cradle and tomb. Here and there, evermore, Since first lifted a prime, And mortal with him, Father Hazy, old Time, Untokened and dim, From the brood-mists of yore, His chief breather was bore; Craving and unsated still, Feedeth the War. On one hand, the God-will, On the other, the Man's, Bounden a chooser, or liege to the chance? Who shall assign it? Each where it fall? Prove the parts from the Whole? How may they plead--Doer, and deed? Response, 'gainst the Call? Is there a name for the appeal and the claim, From the shaping to Shaper, The Judger that scans, While dim Fates yet fulfill, Exalting ordain, Thro' the stress and the pain, That high something, the Will, Bid it rise to the answer, Tho' one with the Plan's? Ay,--shall the soul not be held to the vast reply? Or, shall its dower of light, Widowed of wonder, sad mate with the Night, Like what fierce-flaunting Sun's, When its pomp is done, Fail him and die? Be the soul, its selfhood a dream, But some phantom-fed gleam? Past yon torches that burn, Unbarred may no high suit go? But beggared, unmorrowed, never to know, Unvisioned etern, Behold not, with humbled, tho' how larger eyes, The Fountains that rise? CLIO. From out my tossed and wayward page, Where yet to prompt it, broad and clear, God and demon struggling wage-- Thoughts of hope gainst things of Fear-- Something lifts: How should I know Why or whence, save that in light, Above my monitors of boding Night-- Tally-hands that warning draw, With my good Augurs, joint indite, Checked, but sure, the founded law-- It gently calls in thy behoof, Rounding my unfinished verse, Clinching, as from pith of proof, What the lines but faint rehearse, While, to deep tho' far-off chords, It voiceth low these simple words: