I, when in this North wind I see The straining red woods blown awry, Feel shuddering like the winter tree, All vein and artery on cold sky. IX The leaf that clothed me is torn away; My friend is as a flying seed. Ay, true; to bring replenished day Light ebbs, but I am bare, and bleed. X What husky habitations seem These comfortable sayings! they fell, In some rich year become a dream:— So cries my heart, the infidel! . . . XI Oh! for the strenuous mind in quest, Arabian visions could not vie With those broad wonders of the West, And would I bid you stay? Not I! XII The strange experimental land Where men continually dare take Niagara leaps;—unshattered stand ’Twixt fall and fall;—for conscience’ sake, XIII Drive onward like a flood’s increase;— Fresh rapids and abysms engage;— (We live—we die) scorn fireside peace, And, as a garment, put on rage, XIV Rather than bear God’s reprimand, By rearing on a full fat soil Concrete of sin and sloth;—this land, You will observe it coil in coil. XV The land has been discover’d long, The people we have yet to know; Themselves they know not, save that strong For good and evil still they grow. XVI Nor know they us. Yea, well enough In that inveterate machine Through which we speak the printed stuff Daily, with voice most hugeous, mien XVII Tremendous:—as a lion’s show The grand menagerie paintings hide: Hear the drum beat, the trombones blow! The poor old Lion lies inside! . . . XVIII It is not England that they hear, But mighty Mammon’s pipers, trained To trumpet out his moods, and stir His sluggish soul: _her_ voice is chained: XIX Almost her spirit seems moribund! O teach them, ’tis not she displays The panic of a purse rotund, Eternal dread of evil days,— XX That haunting spectre of success Which shows a heart sunk low in the girths: Not England answers nobleness,— ‘Live for thyself: thou art not earth’s.’ XXI Not she, when struggling manhood tries For freedom, air, a hopefuller fate, Points out the planet, Compromise, And shakes a mild reproving pate: XXII Says never: ‘I am well at ease, My sneers upon the weak I shed: The strong have my cajoleries: And those beneath my feet I tread.’ XXIII Nay, but ’tis said for her, great Lord! The misery’s there! The shameless one Adjures mankind to sheathe the sword, Herself not yielding what it won:— XXIV Her sermon at cock-crow doth preach, On sweet Prosperity—or greed. ‘Lo! as the beasts feed, each for each, God’s blessings let us take, and feed!’ XXV Ungrateful creatures crave a part— She tells them firmly she is full; Lost sheared sheep hurt her tender heart With bleating, stops her ears with wool:— XXVI