deeds avail not; and our dreams are thrust
Into the dark and wither from the sky.
We live in duress, and to sweetness die;
And lo! our guerdon is the world's distrust.
Yet have we dreamt of judgment that is just,
And seen a splendour trailing from on high;
From mean abortion mounts our piteous cry:
"Out of the dust, O Christ! out of the dust!"

We are as leaves within the winter gale,
And are through tribulation darkly driven;
And all the promise that the prime hath given
Is as faint smoke before the winds that wail.
Wan from the drowning pools of bitter bale
Our futile faces front the hush of heaven!

TO AMERICA

I.

Thou of the starry wing, that canst not soar,
Confused power, still seeking, still unblest;
For ever clutching to a braggart breast
The hope portentous and the worldling's lore.
Furiously futile, with a raucous roar
Thy dizzy moments mock th' eternal quest;
To feverish ends, by factions fierce distrest,
Toiling, a sanguine Titan evermore,--

America!--Ah, burthen of the mind!--
Cradled in truth, and 'mid distractions born
To pure emprise on that despotic morn
When freedom yearned along the westering wind,
And tyranny, that hound among the blind,
Bayed toward the deep where faith went forth--forlorn.

II.

Thou who didst dare th' unknown, precarious sea,
And down the unbounded winds adventurous roam,
Searching the world's horizons for a home,
A haven for the heart of liberty:--
Boaster of freedom, found no longer free,
What vaporous phantom from time's ocean-foam
Blurs the translucence of th' eternal dome
Where sang the burning stars that beckoned thee?

Thy heart hath caught the siren's doom-sweet cries,
And sips oblivion at fond Circe's nod.
Oh! for a seer whose soul is lightning-shod,
To stand imperial 'gainst th' impervious skies,
As Lincoln stood, with brave heaven-gazing eyes,
To appeal from guile's impermanence to God!

TO ITALY

I.

Italia, seated by the sapphire sea,
Crooning of summers rich from long ago,
Dreamer mid dreams, thy peerless face aglow
With rare romance and passionate poesy;
Hath time's delirium taken even thee,
Mother of Petrarch, Raphael, Angelo?
And dost thou purblind speed to weltering woe,