A saying, hard to shape in act;
          For all the past of Time reveals
          A bridal dawn of thunder-peals,
        Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact.

        Ev’n now we hear with inward strife
          A motion toiling in the gloom—­
          The Spirit of the years to come
        Yearning to mix himself with Life.

        A slow-develop’d strength awaits
          Completion in a painful school;
          Phantoms of other forms of rule,
        New Majesties of mighty States—­

        The warders of the growing hour,
          But vague in vapour, hard to mark;
          And round them sea and air are dark
        With great contrivances of Power.

        Of many changes, aptly join’d,
          Is bodied forth the second whole. 
          Regard gradation, lest the soul
        Of Discord race the rising wind;

        A wind to puff your idol-fires,
          And heap their ashes on the head;
          To shame the boast so often made,
        That we are wiser than our sires.

        O yet, if Nature’s evil star
          Drive men in manhood, as in youth,
          To follow flying steps of Truth
        Across the brazen bridge of war—­

        If New and Old, disastrous feud,
          Must ever shock, like armed foes,
          And this be true, till time shall close,
        That Principles are rain’d in blood;

        Not yet the wise of heart would cease
          To hold his hope thro’ shame and guilt,
          But with his hand against the hilt
        Would pace the troubled land, like Peace;

        Not less, tho’ dogs of Faction bay,
          Would serve his kind in deed and word,
          Certain, if knowledge bring the sword,
        That knowledge takes the sword away—­

        Would love the gleams of good that broke
          From either side, nor veil his eyes: 
          And if some dreadful need should rise
        Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke: 

        To-morrow yet would reap to-day,
          As we bear blossom of the dead;
          Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed
        Raw Haste, half sister to Delay.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

BY GERALD MASSEY.

      High hopes that burn’d like stars sublime,
        Go down i’ the heaven of freedom;
      And true hearts perish in the time
        We bitterliest need ’em! 
      But never sit we down and say
        There’s nothing left but sorrow;
      We walk the wilderness to-day—­
        The promised land to-morrow!