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Not lured by any cheat of birth,

But by his clear-grained hunan

worth,

And brave old wisdom of sincerity! They knew that outward grace is dust;

They could not choose but trust

In that sure-footed mind's unfaltering skill,

And supple-tempered will That bent like perfect steel to spring again and thrust.

His was no lonely mountain-peak of mind,

Thrusting to thin air o'er our cloudy bars,

A seamark now, now lost in vapors blind;

Broad prairie rather, genial, level-lined,

Fruitful and friendly for all human kind,

Yet also nigh to Heaven and loved of loftiest stars.

Nothing of Europe here, Or, then, of Europe fronting mornward still,

Ere any names of Serf and
Peer

Could Nature's equal scheme
deface;

Here was a type of the true elder race,

And one of Plutarch's men talked with us face to face.

I praise him not; it were too late;

And some innative weakness there

must be

In him who condescends to victory Such as the Present gives, and cannot wait,

Safe in himself as in a fate. So always firmly he: He knew to bide his time, And can his fame abide, Still patient in his simple faith sublime,

Till the wise years decide. Great captains, with their guns and drums,

Disturb our judgment for the hour,

But at last silence comes: These all are gone, and, standing like a tower,

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Again and yet again Into a dirge, and die away in pain. In these brave ranks I only see the gaps,

Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps,

Dark to the triumph which they died to gain:

Fitlier may others greet the living,

For me the past is unforgiving; I with uncovered head Salute the sacred dead, Who went, and who return not. Say not so!

'Tis not the grapes of Canaan that repay,

But the high faith that failed not by the way;

Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave;

No bar of endless night exiles the brave:

And to the saner mind We rather seem the dead that staid behind.

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Lift the heart and lift the head!
Lofty be its mood and grave,
Not without a martial ring,
Not without a prouder tread
And a peal of exultation:
Little right has he to sing
Through whose heart in such an
hour

Beats no march of conscious
power,

Sweeps no tumult of elation! 'Tis no Man we celebrate,

By his country's victories great, A hero half, and half the whim of Fate,

But the pith and marrow of a
Nation

Drawing force from all her men,
Highest, humblest, weakest,

all,

For her day of need, and then Pulsing it again through them, Till the basest can no longer cower

Feeling his soul spring up divinely tall,

Touched but in passing by her mantle-hem.

Come back, then, noble pride, for 'tis her dower!

How could poet ever tower,
If his passions, hopes, and fears,
If his triumphs and his tears,
Kept not measure with his peo-
ple?

Boom, cannon, boom to all the winds and waves!

Clash out, glad bells, from every rocking steeple!

Banners, adance with triumph, bend your staves!

And from every mountain-peak Let beacon-fire to answering beacon speak,

Katahdin tell Monadnock, Whiteface he,

And so leap on in light from sea to sea,

Till the glad news be sent Across a kindling continent, Making earth feel more firm and air breathe braver:—

"Be proud! for she is saved, and all have helped to save her! She that lifts up the manhood of the poor,

She of the open soul and open door,

With room about her hearth for

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