No harvest else come worth its seed, Which holds not fast, gives o'er to taunt This word--not what is bred, but what we breed Foregathered hoard, but what we plant, Alone shall lift mid prides that sink, To foison come, 'mid thorny steeps of mazy ways, Where ruthless heats far-fated drink, Make nought the sap of lustful days; So pledged alone endure, enlarge, Make good, withal, some vicared trust, Undue to hope yon scruteless charge Whose brief is Time and riddling Dust; So nurtured, rear, while Right unfolds, Athwart rude stretch of the perplexing Plan's, Some keep, some faith, that sheltering holds, Sets God twice forth, thro' will of Man's. Oh, yes, it was a gallant fight, In free men's gashes writ on Story's page, Nor, till her sad tome close in utter night, And Destiny muse Time's vanished stage. Shall hours blank its annaled score, But bear it down t'ward yet to-comes, At echoed gleam, set forth yon lore, Which word, nor thought, nor heart-heave sums-- Yon love of Free, whose far-off fount, Which, say it flow through beast and slave, Withal, bids man stand up, assert, account Exalt the gift--some Self, some Soul it gracious gave; Yon voice of Just, whose auguring sooth Wide-visioned bounds these Nears and Fars, While infinite Patience, she, the Truth, Revealed, fulfills her myriad Stars. PEACE. The gentle word has gone abroad, and on mens' lips A tremor hangs, a gladness flutters at the kindly sound, As, at fond repeat, with gathered tone, the quaver slips On swelling heart-heaves 'bout the world's round, Charms to its strain the aliens 't tongue, In yon same music which the high Hopes know, Since, true to wisdom, their brave cheer was sung, Confounding Darkness where the dim Doubts go. And shall heart not heed it, nor its welcome plight; This cup, not feast it, match its deep propose? Unpledging riot, shall the brutal Might Not own the Fountain whence all fathom draws? Bathe sweet those gashes and the bitter bruise, Shall Strength, not holding of her heavyhand, Unleague all compact, which, to spite the Truce, Made Hell confederate with her blind command; Let new days deck her in a nobler wreath, A serener vision lift that groveling brow, Duress and rancor, while they bated breathe, Against some Presence where the deep Fates bow, And, veiled speakers, with mute lay-on hands Ordain, atoning, while the sky-paths chime, In anthems swelling past their starren strands, That ever postulant, sore-vicared Time.