To my very self grow strange—
Wake, as baffled Samson woke,
Shorn and fetter'd, tamed and broke.
[Looks again down into the valley.]
What is stirring down below?
Out of every garth they flow,
Troops of children, wives and men,
And in long lines meet and mingle,
Now among the rocks and shingle
Vanish, now emerge again;—
To the ancient Church they go.
[Rises.]
Oh, I know you, through and through!
Sluggard spirits, souls of lead!
All the Lord's Prayer, said by you,
Is not with such anguish sped,
By such passion borne on high,
That one tittle thrills the sky
As a ringing human cry,
Save the prayer for daily bread!
That's this people's battle-call,
That's the blazon of them all!
From its context pluck'd apart,
Branded deep in every heart—
There it lies, the tempest-tost
Wreckage of the Faith you've lost.
Forth! out of this stifling pit!
Vault-like is the air of it!
Not a Flag may float unfurl'd
In this dead and windless world!
[He is going; a stone is thrown from
above and rolls down the slope close by
him.
Brand.
[Calling upward.]
Ha! who throws stones there?
