3
Brain of the New World, what a task is thine, To formulate the Modern—­out of the peerless grandeur of the modern, Out of thyself, comprising science, to recast poems, churches, art, (Recast, may-be discard them, end them—­maybe their work is done,
    who knows?)
By vision, hand, conception, on the background of the mighty past, the dead, To limn with absolute faith the mighty living present.

And yet thou living present brain, heir of the dead, the Old World brain,
Thou that lay folded like an unborn babe within its folds so long,
Thou carefully prepared by it so long—­haply thou but unfoldest it,
    only maturest it,
It to eventuate in thee—­the essence of the by-gone time contain’d in thee,
Its poems, churches, arts, unwitting to themselves, destined with
    reference to thee;
Thou but the apples, long, long, long a-growing,
The fruit of all the Old ripening to-day in thee.

     4
Sail, sail thy best, ship of Democracy,
Of value is thy freight, ’tis not the Present only,
The Past is also stored in thee,
Thou holdest not the venture of thyself alone, not of the Western
    continent alone,
Earth’s resume entire floats on thy keel O ship, is steadied by thy spars, With thee Time voyages in trust, the antecedent nations sink or
    swim with thee,
With all their ancient struggles, martyrs, heroes, epics, wars, thou
    bear’st the other continents,
Theirs, theirs as much as thine, the destination-port triumphant; Steer then with good strong hand and wary eye O helmsman, thou
    carriest great companions,
Venerable priestly Asia sails this day with thee,
And royal feudal Europe sails with thee.

     5
Beautiful world of new superber birth that rises to my eyes, Like a limitless golden cloud filling the westernr sky, Emblem of general maternity lifted above all,
Sacred shape of the bearer of daughters and sons, Out of thy teeming womb thy giant babes in ceaseless procession issuing, Acceding from such gestation, taking and giving continual strength
    and life,
World of the real—­world of the twain in one,
World of the soul, born by the world of the real alone, led to
    identity, body, by it alone,
Yet in beginning only, incalculable masses of composite precious materials, By history’s cycles forwarded, by every nation, language, hither sent, Ready, collected here, a freer, vast, electric world, to be
    constructed here,
(The true New World, the world of orbic science, morals, literatures
    to come,)
Thou wonder world yet undefined, unform’d, neither do I define thee, How can I pierce the impenetrable blank of the future?  I feel thy ominous greatness evil as well as good, I watch thee advancing, absorbing the present, transcending the past, I see thy light lighting, and thy shadow shadowing, as if the entire globe, But I do not undertake to define thee, hardly to comprehend thee, I but thee name, thee prophesy, as now, I merely thee ejaculate!