Great human nature, whither art thou fled? Are these things creeping forth and back agen, These hollow formalists and echoes, men? Art thou entombèd with the mighty dead? In God's name, no! not yet hath all been said, Or done, or longed for, that is truly great; These pitiful dried crusts will never sate Natures for which pure Truth is daily bread; We were not meant to plod along the earth, Strange to ourselves and to our fellows strange; We were not meant to struggle from our birth To skulk and creep, and in mean pathways range; Act! with stern truth, large faith, and loving will! Up and be doing! God is with us still. III. TO A FRIEND. One strip of bark may feed the broken tree, Giving to some few limbs a sickly green; And one light shower on the hills, I ween, May keep the spring from drying utterly. Thus seemeth it with these our hearts to be; Hope is the strip of bark, the shower of rain, And so they are not wholly crushed with pain. But live and linger on, far sadder sight to see; Much do they err, who tell us that the heart May not be broken; what, then, can we call A broken heart, if this may not be so, This death in life, when, shrouded in its pall, Shunning and shunned, it dwelleth all apart, Its power, its love, its sympathy laid low? IV. So may it be, but let it not be so, O, let it not be so with thee, my friend; Be of good courage, bear up to the end, And on thine after way rejoicing go! We all must suffer, if we aught would know; Life is a teacher stern, and wisdom's crown Is oft a crown of thorns, whence, trickling down, Blood, mixed with tears, blinding her eyes doth flow But Time, a gentle nurse, shall wipe away This bloody sweat, and thou shalt find on earth, That woman is not all in all to Love, But, living by a new and second birth, Thy soul shall see all things below, above, Grow bright and brighter to the perfect day. V. O child of Nature! O most meek and free, Most gentle spirit of true nobleness! Thou doest not a worthy deed the less Because the world may not its greatness see; What were a thousand triumphings to thee, Who, in thyself, art as a perfect sphere Wrapt in a bright and natural atmosphere Of mighty-souledness and majesty? Thy soul is not too high for lowly things, Feels not its strength seeing its brother weak, Not for itself unto itself is dear, But for that it may guide the wanderings Of fellow-men, and to their spirits speak The lofty faith of heart that knows no fear. VI. TO ----