Aloft, alone, an exile among men, A wanderer in a solitary way, Pariah of prejudice and unbelief, Whose lowering features fiercely on him frowned. Thought's prisoner and truth's, that maketh free The spirit, though the body pine in chains, Albeit the tongue, the pen, in durance be, Consigned to silence, captive unto light, And crucified betwixt ideal and real. But who art thou that lookest forth sublime, 2690 A soul upsoaring as from sepulture, Body and spirit pure and free from stain, As gold and silver tried by seven-timed fire? Speak! Art not thou the Woman Wonderful[20], Summoned from out the silent wilderness, Arisen from the grave of centuries, No more to be despoiled or trodden down? A symbol of exalted sanctity, The consecration of the contrite heart; Of ancient types the modern complement, 2700 Chief splendor of time's sparkling firmament, Whose silver stars bespoke this sun of gold. But when did darkness comprehend the day? When welcomed pleasure thorn-crowned sacrifice, Whose higher, holier joys than sin can know, As dust and ashes to the sensual soul? Jewels to swine, that, turning, rent the hand, And fain 'neath foot had torn and trampled all. Such was Truth's fate, alas! in modern time, 'Mid Christian men;--but not her final fate. 2710 For who can stay the sun-like march of Truth? Who dim with bloody hand her beam divine? First shall he halt the progress of the stars, The bright procession of the infinite; Blot out the day-beam, dull the scythe of time, Shear morning's wings, roll back eternal night, Or shake the moveless throne of destiny. Lifted an ensign never to be furled, Unsheathed a falchion evermore to flame, Till earth-born realms, in one wide empire rolled, 2720 Hail conquering Christ as life and light of all. CANTO NINE Upon The Shoulders of The Philistine[1] The Eaglet's nest is empty[2]--void the lair Of the young Lion. Where, O Ephraim, where? Where billows break along a storied strand[3], Heroic wave, a fair and favored land. Realm of a rising glory--this thy name! The cradle of the Kingdom--this thy fame! There rose the morn--though flecked with fire and blood-- The morn benign of human brotherhood, Foredestined to a passing cloud's eclipse. 2730 Self-trammeled cause, harried by hounds and whips Of persecution, whose infuriate maw, Usurping oft the form and force of law,-- To lawless hands a far too ready rod,-- Had fain engulfed the growing work of God. Widowed, bereft, a land left desolate, A wounded bird that mourns a driven mate, The plumage from its bleeding body torn, And scattered wide o'er realms remote, forlorn. On, Ephraim, on! thy pilgrim flight renew. 2740 Land of the Sun--Shinea's land[4]--adieu!