Despair thine art! Thou canst not hush those cries, Thou canst not blind those eyes, Thou canst not chain those feet, But they a path shall beat Forth from thine heart. Forth from thine heart! There wouldst thou dungeon him, In cell both close and dim— The key he turns on thee, And out he goeth free! Despair thine art! In her poem, “The Compass,” she carries the reasoning farther, and declares that if one is to wait upon the Force within and give it freedom, he shall also be trusted to follow where it leads, knowing that if temporarily deflected it will adjust itself to the truth as surely as the compass, thrown momentarily out of poise, searches and finds its compelling attraction. Aside from the analogy in the lines, the dignity of their movement, the harmonious fall of the cæsura, and the fine blending of word and tone, render them highly artistic: Touch but with gentlest finger the crystal that circles the Mariner’s Guide— To the East and the West how it drifts, and trembles, and searches on every side! But it comes to its rest, and its light lance poises only one self-same way Since ever a ship spread her marvellous sea-wings, or plunged her swan-breast through the spray— For North points the needle! Ye look not alone for the sign of the lode-star; the lode-stone too lendeth cheer; Yet one in the heavens is established forever, and one is compelled through the sphere. What! and ye chide not the fluttering magnet that seemeth to fly its troth, Yet even now is again recording its fealty’s silent oath— As North points the needle! Praise ye bestow that, though mobile and frail as a tremulous spheret of dew, It obeys an imperial law that ye know not (yet know that it guideth most true); So, are ye content with its fugitive guidance—ye, but the winds’ and waves’ sport!— So, are ye content to sail by your compass, and come in fair hour to your port; For North points the needle! And now, will ye censure, because, of compulsion, the spirit that rules in this breast, To show what a poet must show, was attempered, and touched with a cureless unrest, Swift to be moved with all human mutation, to traverse passion’s whole range? Mood succeeds mood, and humor fleets humor, yet never heart’s drift can they change, For North points the needle! Inconstant I were to that Sovereign Bidding (why or whence given unknown), Failed I to tent the entire round of motive ere sinking back to my own: The error be yours, if ye think my faith erring or deem my allegiance I fly; I follow my law and fulfil it all duly—and look! when your doubt runneth high— North points the needle!