"Væ! meá culpâ!" is not like to stand
A freedman at a despot's, and dispute
His titles by the balance in his hand,
Weighing them "suo jure." Tend the root,
If careful of the branches; and expand
The inner souls of men, before you strive
For civic heroes.
XX.
From all these crowded faces, all alive,—
Eyes, of their own lids flashing themselves bare,—
And brows that with a mobile life contrive
A deeper shadow,—may we no wise dare
To point a finger out, and touch a man,
And cry "this is the leader." What, all these!—
Broad heads, black eyes,—yet not a soul that ran
From God down with a message? All, to please
The donna waving measures with her fan,
And not the judgment-angel on his knees—
The trumpet just an inch off from his lips—
Who when he breathes next, will put out the sun?
Yet mankind's self were foundered in eclipse,
If lacking, with a great work to be done,
A doer. No, the earth already dips
Back into light—a better day's begun—
And soon this doer, teacher, will stand plain,
And build the golden pipes and synthesize
This people-organ for a holy strain:
And we who hope thus, still in all these eyes,
Go sounding for the deep look which shall drain
Suffused thought into channelled enterprise!
Where is the teacher? What now may he do,
Who shall do greatly? Doth he gird his waist
