And beyond this, there is a hush in the nation’s heart, an expectancy, a waiting and longing for some unspoken word, which sometimes seems awful in the bounty of its promise.  I know men educated to speak, with the burden of a speaker’s vocation on their hearts, but now these many years remaining heroically silent; the fountains of a fresh consciousness sweet within them, but not yet flowing into speech, and they too earnest, too expectant, too sure of the future to say aught beneath the strain.  “Why do you not speak?” was inquired of one.  “Because I can keep silent,” he said, “and the word I am to utter will command me.”  No man assumes that attitude until he is already a party to the deepest truth, is the silent side of a seer; and in a nation where any numbers are passing this more than Pythagorean lustrum, a speech is surely coming that will no more need to apologize for itself than the speech of the forest or the ocean-shore.  The region of the trade-winds is skirted with calm.  Sydney Smith said of Macaulay, that his talk, to render it charming, “needed only a few brilliant flashes of silence.”  We are talkative, but the flashes of silence are not wanting, and there is prophecy in them as well as charm.  Said one, of a speaker,—­“He was so rarely eloquent, that what he did not say was even better than what he did.”  And here, not only are some wholly silent, but in our best writings the impressive not-saying lends its higher suggestion than that expressly put forth.  What spaces between Emerson’s sentences!  Each seems to float like a solitary summer-cloud in a whole sky of silence.

Yes, the fact is already indubitable, a rich life, sure in due time of its rich expression, is forming here.  As out of the deeps of Destiny, the Man for the Continent, head-craftsman, hand-craftsman, already puts his foot to this shore.  All hail, new-comer!  Welcome to great tasks, great toils, to mighty disciplines, to victories that shall not be too cheaply purchased, to defeats that shall be better than victories!  We give thee joy of new powers, new work, unprecedented futures!  We give the world joy of a new and mighty artist to plan, a new strong artisan to quarry and to build in the great architectures of humanity!

THE POET KEATS.

  His was the soul, once pent in English clay,
  Whereby ungrateful England seemed to hold
  The sweet Narcissus, parted from his stream,—­
  Endymion, not unmindful of his dream,
  Like a weak bird the flock has left behind.

  Untimely notes the poet sung alone,
  Checked by the chilling frosts of words unkind;
  And his grieved soul, some thousand years astray,
  Paled like the moon in most unwelcome day.

  His speech betrayed him ere his heart grew cold;
  With morning freshness to the world he told
  Of man’s first love, and fearless creed of youth,
  When Beauty he believed the type of Truth.