Shall thy fair likeness not refigured speak, Each trait come moulded t'ward this crowning True-- That, Mind, the mightiest, shall outsee itself, No gift, not servant, round more full the Soul, Nor in the bounteous equipment find The meanest haughty crest, nay tricksiest spur upon that crest, Whereon to hang the damned assurance of a law Exempting answer to the gauging Just; But from the grace and undeserved oblation draw, Bring heavenly down--whether in man or men, In gathered Nations, or the singler few-- Fresh-purposed to the will, fresh trusting And sustaining there, the guardian angel of humility, The lifting spirit of the thankful heart? Shalt thou not make it goodly clear, 'Tis not Endeavor which alone achieves, Save as it aim averts not, but for grace upholds, Crowns true some spirit, would set struggling forth, At vast contention and in emulous pride, Yon speechless comment which the Hopes give out, For fresh construction of the rigid text, The nice enactment, tho' dispiteous code, Whose leased expression and whose outward sum Are Nature's equities and ways about? Ay, shall thus, fresh copied not, thine image shine; Shalt thou not thus acquit thyself, re-message Faith, The act affirm her, and the daily thought, Full-knowing that her life lies there, and only hostage unto groping man? Shalt thou not thus draw gracious near, Till all hearts enfold thee, and, in their rude despite, The scoring Fates cry wondering out, "Our worst is done; there is now no more; Our record writes itself, to justice dedicate And happy Good." If not--alas, misprision and the futile trust! If not--if Destiny still a boggler stand, Knows Hence from Hither, nor which way were best, If yet the rude purveyor, Time, Finds in the vast commission and despatch of him, In his prospects and his comings-on, The near or far, unfeatured still that dream of thee, No Perfect ever, scarce thy better there, But that blots shall lasting stain it, give it Fresh relief, traduce the glory he had meant Hold forth; if yet the Vain come worshipped, And the Brute must thrive, more subtly nourished, But its breed the same, while the Free, Tho' of outward credit, wear a golden clog, Pollutes his title, and defaults the heart: In few, if Fact be consecrate, the Brain its God, No Faith to hallow, save what Reason hold, Rank-rooting never in no soil but Self, Till Hope, an exile--say she breathe at all-- Strangered and out of rights, eats her own heart, In weary banishment and quail of man:-- If this be so, if that could be--were it better not, Thus tricked and thwarted of thy clearer self, This Present, pathless, with worse maze before-- Were it better not, white days should cease them, And the Stars to roll, invite disruption, and, thro' wrack