 | Under the dawn |  |
136
ODE
ON THE MORNING OF MAN'S NATIVITY.
I
This is the morn, and this the happy hour,Wherein the soul of Man, enslavèd long,
Bursts from slow bud to final beauty of flower,
With all creation for his harp and song;
Man, bent, defiled by ages of black wrong,
At length asserts his sweet supremacy,
And takes the lingering sceptre of the earth and sea.
II
As one before me sang the happy birthOf Christ, and through long years the sweetest sound
Of Milton's lyre has added tuneful mirth
To Christmas, heard when blazing logs abound,
And blue ice stiffens on the imprisoned ground,
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Who surely hence shall rule the coming ages dim.
III
Help me, no fabled muse, but rather Thou,Swift Spirit of the widening universe,
To accomplish with success my tuneful vow!
Grant me a reed melodious, and terse,
And fragrant, for I hymn no fabled curse,
But rather, from our century's mountain-tops,
Of pleasure do I sing and progress' holy crops.
IV
I prophesy the end of Christ's fair reign,I prophesy a fairer, even of Man,
Who, having suffered the collective pain
Of Calvary, and groanèd for a span,
Even since the flood of toilsome life began,
Is risen—and he sits with sceptre sweet
At this our river-fountain, where wide ages meet.
| Under the dawn | |