THE busy world shoves angrily aside The man who stands with arms akimbo set, Until occasion tells him what to do; And he who waits to have his task mark’d out Shall die and leave his errand unfulfill’d. Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds; Reason and Government, like two broad seas, Yearn for each other with outstretched arms Across this narrow isthmus of the throne, And roll their white surf higher every day. One age moves onward, and the next builds up Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild, Rearing from out the forests they had fell’d The goodly framework of a fairer state; The builder’s trowel and the settler’s axe Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand; Ours is the harder task, yet not the less Shall we receive the blessing for our toil From the choice spirits of the after-time. The field lies wide before us, where to reap The easy harvest of a deathless name, Though with no better sickles than our swords. My soul is not a palace of the past, Where outworn creeds, like Rome’s gray senate, quake, Hearing afar the Vandal’s trumpet hoarse, That shakes old systems with a thunder-fit. The time is ripe, and rotten-ripe, for change; Then let it come: I have no dread of what Is call’d for by the instinct of mankind; Nor think I that God’s world will fall apart Because we tear a parchment more or less. Truth is eternal, but her effluence, With endless change, is fitted to the hour: Her mirror is turn’d forward, to reflect The promise of the future, not the past. He who would win the name of truly great Must understand his own age and the next, And make the present ready to fulfil Its prophecy, and with the future merge Gently and peacefully, as wave with wave. The future works out great men’s destinies; The present is enough for common souls, Who, never looking forward, are indeed Mere clay wherein the footprints of their age Are petrified forever: better those Who lead the blind old giant by the hand From out the pathless desert where he gropes, And set him onward in his darksome way. I do not fear to follow out the truth, Albeit along the precipice’s edge. Let us speak plain: there is more force in names Than most men dream of; and a lie may keep Its throne a whole age longer if it skulk Behind the shield of some fair-seeming name. Let us all call tyrants _tyrants_, and maintain That only freedom comes by grace of God, And all that comes not by His grace must fall; For men in earnest have no time to waste In patching fig-leaves for the naked truth. * * * * * THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.