Lyrical Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

O bright and single moment, when
The clouds above us part, and men
Behold some golden goal on high
Shine graspable within the farthest sky:—
Onward and upward! Then they close
On the dull laggard's eye, and bar advance,
And bid him doze:—
His chance he had, and lost it:
But others have their chance!

It may be, in some doubtful fight,
Courage to see and choose the right;
Or, leading some assault past hope,

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To tread with even step the gun-crown'd slope;
Or 'gainst some giant falsehood's head
Before the whole world to stand forth, alone,
And strike it dead;
Or, for some wrong wrought on us,
By pardon to atone.

And e'en in England's later years
Of unstrung nerves and foolish fears,
While hoarse-lung'd prophets trade in woe,
And grumblers echo with It must be so,
And every grinning gossip's glass
Perks up for spots, not light, the sun to view,
—O'er that mean mass
Some few have dared to tower,
And greatly hope and do.

And often so
It is with nations; As when one fair land
Saw, North and South, her bright-arm'd myriads stand,
Saw herself rent in twain by matricidal hand:

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Though both were gallant, though
High deeds on either side were wrought,
Yet one for self, and one for mankind fought:
And when war's lurid cloud
From the clear skies had pass'd,
The golden eye of life
From heaven shone bold and free
On white-robed Victory,
And the Right won at last.

—But she, the mother-land, that erst
Those swarms in her full hive had nursed,
Watch'd, sneering, the enormous fight,
Or wish'd the drones success, with blinded spite,
Or hail'd with jealous pettiness
Each bloody field that drank her rivals' strength
And left them less;
Till, in the cause that triumph'd,
She acquiesced at length.

So most who wrote, and most who spoke:—
But underneath that servile yoke

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The dumb, deep-beating, genuine heart
Of England would not crouch, but smiled apart,
Knowing the Right at last must be:—
Nor waver'd in her faith while the long march
Swept towards the sea;
Nor when fair Freedom's martyr,
The headstone of your arch

Fell, for his work below was done:
—England has no nobler son!
Now, by his blood, and by his name,
She calls you to be worthy of your fame:
Another trial-hour is now;
Now o'er the main she looks with eager glance
And bended brow:—
Our chance we had, and lost it!
But you have yet your chance!

O men who won!
O other larger England, saved, and free
Forget the error past, past jealousy!
With your true blood our true blood beats across the sea.

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Let what is done, be done;
The two great hearts in one unite;
Revenge our blindness by your clearer sight.
Victors in freedom's fight,
Another conflict see,
An upward-flashing path
To win a new renown,—
Crown'd with the greater crown
Of magnanimity!