VII

  Is here no triumph?  Nay, what though
The yellow blood of Trade meanwhile should pour
  Along its arteries a shrunken flow,
And the idle canvas droop around the shore? 
      These do not make a state,
      Nor keep it great;
      I think God made
  The earth for man, not trade; 100
And where each humblest human creature
Can stand, no more suspicious or afraid,
Erect and kingly in his right of nature,
To heaven and earth knit with harmonious ties,—­
  Where I behold the exultation
  Of manhood glowing in those eyes
    That had been dark for ages,
    Or only lit with bestial loves and rages,
    There I behold a Nation: 
        The France which lies 110
    Between the Pyrenees and Rhine
  Is the least part of France;
I see her rather in the soul whose shine
Burns through the craftsman’s grimy countenance,
    In the new energy divine
  Of Toil’s enfranchised glance.

VIII

      And if it be a dream,
  If the great Future be the little Past
  ’Neath a new mask, which drops and shows at last
  The same weird, mocking face to balk and blast, 120
Yet, Muse, a gladder measure suits the theme,
      And the Tyrtaean harp
    Loves notes more resolute and sharp,
Throbbing, as throbs the bosom, hot and fast: 
    Such visions are of morning,
    Theirs is no vague forewarning,
The dreams which nations dream come true. 
    And shape the world anew;
      If this be a sleep, 129
      Make it long, make it deep,
O Father, who-sendest the harvests men reap! 
    While Labor so sleepeth,
      His sorrow is gone,
    No longer he weepeth,
    But smileth and steepeth
      His thoughts in the dawn;
    He heareth Hope yonder
      Rain, lark-like, her fancies,
    His dreaming hands wander
      Mid heart’s-ease and pansies; 140
    ’’Tis a dream!  ‘Tis a vision!’
      Shrieks Mammon aghast;
    ’The day’s broad derision
      Will chase it at last;
    Ye are mad, ye have taken
    A slumbering kraken
      For firm land of the Past!’
    Ah! if he awaken,
      God shield us all then, 149
    If this dream rudely shaken
      Shall cheat him again!

IX

  Since first I heard our Northwind blow,
  Since first I saw Atlantic throw
  On our grim rocks his thunderous snow,
  I loved thee, Freedom; as a boy
The rattle of thy shield at Marathon
      Did with a Grecian joy
      Through all my pulses run;
But I have learned to love thee now
Without the helm upon thy gleaming brow, 160
  A maiden mild and undefiled
Like her who bore the world’s redeeming child;