Of some transmuting influence felt in me,
And, looking now, a wolf I seemed to see
Limned in that vapor, gaunt and hunger-bold,
Threatening her charge; resolve in every limb,
Erect she flamed in mail of sun-wove gold,
Penthesilea’s self for battle dight;
One arm uplifted braced a flickering spear,
And one her adamantine shield made light;
Her face, helm-shadowed, grew a thing to fear,
And her fierce eyes, by danger challenged, took 30
Her trident-sceptred mother’s dauntless look. 
‘I know thee now, O goddess-born!’ I cried,
And turned with loftier brow and firmer stride;
For in that spectral cloud-work I had seen
Her image, bodied forth by love and pride,
The fearless, the benign, the mother-eyed,
The fairer world’s toil-consecrated queen.

2.

What shape by exile dreamed elates the mind
Like hers whose hand, a fortress of the poor,
No blood in vengeance spilt, though lawful, stains? 40
Who never turned a suppliant from her door? 
Whose conquests are the gains of all mankind? 
To-day her thanks shall fly on every wind,
Unstinted, unrebuked, from shore to shore,
One love, one hope, and not a doubt behind! 
Cannon to cannon shall repeat her praise,
Banner to banner flap it forth in flame;
Her children shall rise up to bless her name,
And wish her harmless length of days,
The mighty mother of a mighty brood, 50
Blessed in all tongues and dear to every blood,
The beautiful, the strong, and, best of all, the good.

3.

Seven years long was the bow
Of battle bent, and the heightening
Storm-heaps convulsed with the throe
Of their uncontainable lightning;
Seven years long heard the sea
Crash of navies and wave-borne thunder;
Then drifted the cloud-rack a-lee,
And new stars were seen, a world’s wonder; 60
Each by her sisters made bright,
All binding all to their stations,
Cluster of manifold light
Startling the old constellations: 
Men looked up and grew pale: 
Was it a comet or star,
Omen of blessing or bale. 
Hung o’er the ocean afar?

4.

Stormy the day of her birth:  69
Was she not born of the strong. 
She, the last ripeness of earth,
Beautiful, prophesied long? 
Stormy the days of her prime: 
Hers are the pulses that beat
Higher for perils sublime,
Making them fawn at her feet. 
Was she not born of the strong? 
Was she not born of the wise? 
Daring and counsel belong
Of right to her confident eyes: 
Human and motherly they, 81
Careless of station or race: 
Hearken! her children to-day
Shout for the joy of her face.

II

1.