So lived all those stalwart captains of the loyal Saxon blood, Grasping morsels of adventure as an eagle grasps his food; Fought till death for queen and country, hating Antichrist and Spain; Sacked the rich Castilian cities of the glittering western main; Hacked and hewed the molten idols of each gray cathedral pile, And with Carthaginian silver dowered the virgin English isle. Up and down the proud Antilles still the ringing echoes go: _Ho! a Raleigh! Ho! a Drake!_—and, forever, WESTWARD HO! Why should not my later pæan catch the swell of that refrain, And, with bursts of fresh endeavor, send it down the age again? But I know, that, while the mariner wafts along the golden year, Broader continents of action open up in every sphere. And I deem those noble also, who, with strong persuasive art, Strike the chords of aspiration in a people’s lyric heart. If in mine—of all republics the Atlantis and supreme— There be little cause for mouthing on the old, undying theme— Yet I falter while I say it:—ours of every crime the worst! For the long revenge of Heaven crying loud and calling first: But if fiery Carolina and all the sensual South, Like the world before the deluge, laugh to scorn the warning mouth,— In the lap of hoary Europe lie her children ill at rest, Reaching hands of supplication to their brethren of the West; Pale about the lifeless fountain of their ancient freedom, wait Till the angel move its waters and avenge their stricken state. Let me then, a new crusader, to the eastward set my face, Wake the fires of old tradition on each sacred altar-place, Till a trodden people rouse them, with a clamor as divine As the winds of autumn roaring through the clumps of forest-pine. I myself would seize their banner; they should follow where it led, To the triumph of the victors or the pallor of the dead. It were better than to conquer—from the light of life to go With such words as once were uttered, off the isle of Floreo: _Here die I, Sir Richard Grenvile, of a free and joyful mood:_ _Ending earth for God and honor, as a valiant soldier should!_ But my present life—what is it? mated, housed, like other men; Thoughtful of the cost of feeding, valiant only with the pen; Lying, walled about with custom, on an iron bed of creeds; Peering out through grated windows at the joy my spirit needs. And I hear the sound of chanting,—mailed men are passing by; Crumble, walls, and loosen, fetters! I will join them, ere I die!” So the sleeping thoughts of boyhood oped their eyes and newly stirred, And my muscles cried for usage, till the man their plainings heard: While the star that lit me ever in the dark and thorny ways, Mine by natal consecration, by the choice of after days,— Seen through all the sorrow thickening round the hopes of younger years,— Rayless grew, and left me groping in the valley of my tears.