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And, when he was made full to overflowing
  With all the loveliness of heaven and earth,
Out rushed his song, like molten iron glowing,
  To show God sitting by the humblest hearth. 
With calmest courage he was ever ready
  To teach that action was the truth of thought,
And, with strong arm and purpose firm and steady,
  An anchor for the drifting world he wrought. 
So did he make the meanest man partaker
  Of all his brother-gods unto him gave; 50
All souls did reverence him and name him Maker,
  And when he died heaped temples on his grave. 
And still his deathless words of light are swimming
  Serene throughout the great deep infinite
Of human soul, unwaning and undimming,
  To cheer and guide the mariner at night.

II

But now the Poet is an empty rhymer
  Who lies with idle elbow on the grass,
And fits his singing, like a cunning timer,
  To all men’s prides and fancies as they pass. 60
Not his the song, which, in its metre holy,
  Chimes with the music of the eternal stars,
Humbling the tyrant, lifting up the lowly,
  And sending sun through the soul’s prison-bars. 
Maker no more,—­oh no! unmaker rather,
  For he unmakes who doth not all put forth
The power given freely by our loving Father
  To show the body’s dross, the spirit’s worth. 
Awake! great spirit of the ages olden! 
  Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, 70
And let man’s soul be yet again beholden
  To thee for wings to soar to her desire. 
Oh, prophesy no more to-morrow’s splendor,
  Be no more shamefaced to speak out for Truth,
Lay on her altar all the gushings tender,
  The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth! 
Oh, prophesy no more the Maker’s coming,
  Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear
In the dim void, like to the awful humming
  Of the great wings of some new-lighted sphere! 80
Oh, prophesy no more, but be the Poet! 
  This longing was but granted unto thee
That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it,
  That beauty in its highest thou shouldst be. 
O thou who moanest tost with sealike longings,
  Who dimly hearest voices call on thee,
Whose soul is overfilled with mighty throngings
  Of love, and fear, and glorious agony. 
Thou of the toil-strung hands and iron sinews
  And soul by Mother Earth with freedom fed, 90
In whom the hero-spirit yet continues,
  The old free nature is not chained or dead,
Arouse! let thy soul break in music-thunder,
  Let loose the ocean that is in thee pent,
Pour forth thy hope, thy fear, thy love, thy wonder,
  And tell the age what all its signs have meant. 
Where’er thy wildered crowd of brethren jostles,
  Where’er there lingers but a shadow of wrong,
There still is need of martyrs and apostles,