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And he, let come what will of woe, Has saved the land he strove to save; No Cossack hordes, no traitor's blow, Can quench the voice shall haunt his grave.
"I Kossuth am: O Future, thou That clear'st the just and blott'st the vile,
O'er this small dust in reverence bow, Remembering what I was erewhile.
"I was the chosen trump wherethrough Our God sent forth awakening breath; Came chains? Came death? The strain He blew
Sounds on, outliving chains and death.'
I DID not praise thee when the crowd, 'Witched with the moment's inspiration,
Vexed thy still ether with hosannas loud,
And stamped their dusty adoration; I but looked upward with the rest, And, when they shouted Greatest, whispered Best.
They raised thee not, but rose to thee, Their fickle wreaths about thee flinging;
So on some marble Phoebus the high sea Might leave his worthless seaweed clinging,
But pious hands, with reverent care, Make the pure limbs once more sublimely bare.
Now thou 'rt thy plain, grand self again,
Thou art secure from panegyric, Thou who gav'st politics an epic strain, And actedst Freedom's noblest lyric;
This side the Blessed Isles, no tree Grows green enough to make a wreath for thee.
Nor can blame cling to thee; the snow From swinish footprints takes no staining,
But, leaving the gross soils of earth below,
Its spirit mounts, the skies regaining,
And unresenting falls again, To beautify the world with dews and
The highest duty to mere man vouchsafed
Was laid on thee, out of wild chaos,
When the roused popular ocean foamed
And vulture War from his Imaus Snuffed blood, to summon homely Peace,
And show that only order is release. To carve thy fullest thought, what though
Time was not granted? Aye in history,
Like that Dawn's face which baffled
Left shapeless, grander for its mystery,
Thy great Design shall stand, and day its blind front from Orients far away.
Beauty and Truth, and all that these
Drop not like ripened fruit about our feet;
We climb to them through years of sweat and pain;
Without long struggle, none did e er attain
The downward look from Quiet's blissful seat:
Though present loss may be the hero's part,
Yet none can rob him of the victor heart
Whereby the broad-realmed future is subdued,
And Wrong, which now insults from triumph's car,
Sending her vulture hope to raven far, Is made unwilling tributary of Good.
O Mother State, how quenched thy Sinai fires!
Is there none left of thy stanch Mayflower breed?
No spark among the ashes of thy sires, Of Virtue's altar-flame the kindling