Warm-nestled in the down of Prejudice, And be content, though clad with angel-wings, Close-clipped, to hop about from perch to perch, In paltry cages of dead men's dead thoughts? O, rather like the sky-lark, soar and sing, And let our gushing songs befit the dawn And sunrise, and the yet unshaken dew Brimming the chalice of each full-blown hope, Whose blithe front turns to greet the growing day. Never had poets such high call before, Never can poets hope for higher one, And, if they be but faithful to their trust, Earth will remember them with love and joy, And O, far better, God will not forget. For he who settles Freedom's principles Writes the death-warrant of all tyranny; Who speaks the truth stabs Falsehood to the heart, And his mere word makes despots tremble more Than ever Brutus with his dagger could. Wait for no hints from waterfalls or woods, Nor dream that tales of red men, brute and fierce, Repay the finding of this Western World, Or needed half the globe to give them birth: Spirit supreme of Freedom! not for this Did great Columbus tame his eagle soul To jostle with the daws that perch in courts; Not for this, friendless, on an unknown sea, Coping with mad waves and more mutinous spirits, Battled he with the dreadful ache at heart Which tempts, with devilish subtleties of doubt, The hermit of that loneliest solitude, The silent desert of a great New Thought; Though loud Niagara were to-day struck dumb, Yet would this cataract of boiling life, Rush plunging on and on to endless deeps And utter thunder till the world shall cease,-- A thunder worthy of the poet's song, And which alone can fill it with true life. The high evangel to our country granted Could make apostles, yea, with tongues of fire, Of hearts half-darkened back again to clay! 'Tis the soul only that is national, And he who pays true loyalty to that Alone can claim the wreath of patriotism. Beloved! if I wander far and oft From that which I believe, and feel, and know, Thou wilt forgive, not with a sorrowing heart, But with a strengthened hope of better things; Knowing that I, though often blind and false To those I love, and O, more false than all Unto myself, have been most true to thee, And that whoso in one thing hath been true Can be as true in all. Therefore thy hope May yet not prove unfruitful, and thy love Meet, day by day, with less unworthy thanks Whether, as now, we journey hand in hand Or, parted in the body, yet are one In spirit and the love of holy things. THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL. PRELUDE TO PART FIRST.