A freedman at a despot's and dispute His titles by the balance in his hand, Weighing them "suo jure." Tend the root If careful of the branches, and expand The inner souls of men before you strive For civic heroes. But the teacher, where? From all these crowded faces, all alive, Eyes, of their own lids flashing themselves bare, And brows that with a mobile life contrive A deeper shadow,--may we in no wise dare To put a finger out and touch a man, And cry "this is the leader"? What, all these! Broad heads, black eyes,--yet not a soul that ran From God down with a message? All, to please The donna waving measures with her fan, And not the judgment-angel on his knees (The trumpet just an inch off from his lips), Who when he breathes next, will put out the sun? Yet mankind's self were foundered in eclipse, If lacking doers, with great works to be done; And lo, the startled earth already dips Back into light; a better day's begun; And soon this leader, teacher, will stand plain, And build the golden pipes and synthesize This people-organ for a holy strain. We hold this hope, and still in all these eyes Go sounding for the deep look which shall drain Suffused thought into channelled enterprise. Where is the teacher? What now may he do, Who shall do greatly? Doth he gird his waist With a monk's rope, like Luther? or pursue The goat, like Tell? or dry his nets in haste, Like Masaniello when the sky was blue? Keep house, like other peasants, with inlaced Bare brawny arms about a favourite child, And meditative looks beyond the door (But not to mark the kidling's teeth have filed The green shoots of his vine which last year bore Full twenty bunches), or, on triple-piled Throne-velvets sit at ease to bless the poor, Like other pontiffs, in the Poorest's name? The old tiara keeps itself aslope Upon his steady brows which, all the same, Bend mildly to permit the people's hope?