TO THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
Thou Mother stern and proud,
That carest not to hear about thy knee
The singing of thy children; absently
Thou smilest on them, listening for the loud,
Quick crashing of thy chariot. What to thee
Is pastoral stop or reed? thy thoughts are vowed
To tasks of might, and thou thyself wilt be
Thy Poet, finding in thy stormy tunes
Rough music, leaving on the rock thy runes
So dinted deep, no Bard hath need to tell
The triumphs of a march where chronicle
And deed are one. What carest thou for praise
Of gentle-hearted singers! Thou wilt raise
The crown to thine own brows, and calmly claim
The Empire thou hast won; as yet no Name
Is thine to conjure with, as in the days
When Giants walked on earth,—a spell more clear
Is thine in thought, that makes an atmosphere
Where all things are gigantic! portents vast
Loom round thy path, where good and evil cast
That carest not to hear about thy knee
The singing of thy children; absently
Thou smilest on them, listening for the loud,
Quick crashing of thy chariot. What to thee
Is pastoral stop or reed? thy thoughts are vowed
To tasks of might, and thou thyself wilt be
Thy Poet, finding in thy stormy tunes
Rough music, leaving on the rock thy runes
So dinted deep, no Bard hath need to tell
The triumphs of a march where chronicle
And deed are one. What carest thou for praise
Of gentle-hearted singers! Thou wilt raise
The crown to thine own brows, and calmly claim
The Empire thou hast won; as yet no Name
Is thine to conjure with, as in the days
When Giants walked on earth,—a spell more clear
Is thine in thought, that makes an atmosphere
Where all things are gigantic! portents vast
Loom round thy path, where good and evil cast
