They climb'd the rock-built breasts of earth, The Titan-fronted, blowy steeps That cradled Time.... Where Freedom keeps Her flag of white blown stars unfurl'd, They turn'd about, they saw the birth Of sudden dawn upon the world; Again they gazed; they saw the face Of God, and named it boundless space. And they descended and did roam Through levell'd distances set round By room. They saw the Silences Move by and beckon: saw the forms, The very beards, of burly storms, And heard them talk like sounding seas. On unnamed heights bleak-blown and brown, And torn like battlements of Mars, They saw the darknesses come down, Like curtains loosen'd from the dome Of God's cathedral, built of stars. They pitch'd the tent, where rivers run As if to drown the falling sun. They saw the snowy mountains roll'd, And heaved along the nameless lands Like mighty billows; saw the gold Of awful sunsets; saw the blush Of sudden dawn, and felt the hush Of heaven when the day sat down, And hid his face in dusky hands. The long and lonesome nights! the tent That nestled soft in sweep of grass, The hills against the firmament Where scarce the moving moon could pass; The cautious camp, the smother'd light, The silent sentinel at night! The wild beasts howling from the hill; The troubled cattle bellowing; The savage prowling by the spring, Then sudden passing swift and still, And bended as a bow is bent. The arrow sent; the arrow spent And buried in its bloody place, The dead man lying on his face! The clouds of dust, their cloud by day; Their pillar of unfailing fire The far North star. And high, and higher.... They climb'd so high it seem'd eftsoon That they must face the falling moon, That like some flame-lit ruin lay Thrown down before their weary way. They learn'd to read the sign of storms, The moon's wide circles, sunset bars, And storm-provoking blood and flame; And, like the Chaldean shepherds, came At night to name the moving stars. In heaven's face they pictured forms Of beasts, of fishes of the sea. They mark'd the Great Bear wearily Rise up and drag his clinking chain Of stars around the starry main. What lines of yoked and patient steers! What weary thousands pushing west! What restless pilgrims seeking rest, As if from out the edge of years! What great yoked brutes with briskets low, With wrinkled necks like buffalo, With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes, That turn'd so slow and sad to you, That shone like love's eyes soft with tears, That seem'd to plead, and make replies The while they bow'd their necks and drew The creaking load; and look'd at you. Their sable briskets swept the ground, Their cloven feet kept solemn sound.