Is here no triumph? Nay, what though The yellow blood of Trade meanwhile should pour Along its arteries a shrunken flow, And the idle canvas droop around the shore? These do not make a state, Nor keep it great; I think God made The earth for man, not trade; And where each humblest human creature Can stand, no more suspicious or afraid, Erect and kingly in his right of nature, To heaven and earth knit with harmonious ties,-- Where I behold the exultation Of manhood glowing in those eyes That had been dark for ages,-- Or only lit with bestial loves and rages-- There I behold a Nation: The France which lies Between the Pyrenees and Rhine Is the least part of France; I see her rather in the soul whose shine Burns through the craftsman's grimy countenance, In the new energy divine Of Toil's enfranchised glance. VIII. And if it be a dream,-- If the great Future be the little Past 'Neath a new mask, which drops and shows at last The same weird, mocking face to balk and blast,-- Yet, Muse, a gladder measure suits the theme, And the Tyrtæan harp Loves notes more resolute and sharp, Throbbing, as throbs the bosom, hot and fast: Such visions are of morning, Theirs is no vague forewarning, The dreams which nations dream come true, And shape the world anew; If this be a sleep, Make it long, make it deep, O Father, who sendest the harvests men reap! While Labor so sleepeth His sorrow is gone, No longer he weepeth, But smileth and steepeth His thoughts in the dawn; He heareth Hope yonder Rain, lark-like, her fancies, His dreaming hands wander Mid heart's-ease and pansies; "'Tis a dream! 'Tis a vision!" Shrieks Mammon aghast; "The day's broad derision Will chase it at last; Ye are mad, ye have taken, A slumbering kraken For firm land of the Past!" Ah! if he awaken, God shield us all then, If this dream rudely shaken Shall cheat him again! IX.