By this time Jacques Rousseau was canonized; Jefferson dead but seven years or so; Brook Farm was budding, Garrison had started His _Liberator_, Fourier still alive; And Emerson was preening his slim wings For flights into broad spaces--there was stir Enough to sweep the Shelleyan heads,--in truth Shelley was scarcely passed a decade then. Old Godwin still was writing, wars for freedom Swept through the Grecian Isles, America Had “isms” in abundance, but not one Took hold of you. In 1832 Alfred has drawn Out of old Mallory and Grecian myths The “Lady of Shalott” and fair “Œnone,” And put them into verse. This is the year you fight the Black Hawk war, And issue an address to Sangamon’s people. You are but twenty-three, yet this address Would not shame Charles or Alfred; it’s restrained, And sanely balanced, without extra words, Or youth’s conceits, or imitative figures, dreams Or “isms” of the day. No, here you hope That enterprise, morality, sobriety May be more general, and speak a word For popular education, so that all May have a “moderate education” as you say. You make a plea for railroads and canals, And ask the suffrages of the people, saying You have known disappointment far too much To be chagrined at failure, if you lose. They take you at your word and send another To represent them in the Legislature. Then you decide to learn the blacksmith’s trade. But Fate comes by and plucks you by the sleeve, And changes history, doubtless. By ’36 when Charles returns to England You have become a legislator; yes You tried again and won. You have become A lawyer too, by working through the levels Of laborer, store-keeper and surveyor, Wrapped up in problems of geometry, And Kirkham’s grammar and Sir William Blackstone, And Coke on Littleton, and Joseph Chitty. Brook Farm will soon bloom forth, Francois Fourier Is still on earth, and Garrison is shaking Terrible lightning at Slavocracy. And certain libertarians, _videlicet_ John Greenleaf Whittier and others, sing The trampling out of grapes of wrath; in truth The Hebrews taught the idealist how to sing Destruction in the name of God and curse Where strength was lacking for the sword--but you Are not a Robert Emmet, or a Shelley, Have no false dreams of dying to bring in The day of Liberty. At twenty-three You’re measuring the world and waiting for Dawn’s mists to clear that you may measure it, And know the field’s dimensions ere you put Your handle to the plow.