Then Rhoecus beat his breast, and groaned aloud,
And cried, ’Be pitiful! forgive me yet
This once, and I shall never need it more!’
‘Alas!’ the voice returned, ’tis thou art blind,
Not I unmerciful; I can forgive,
But have no skill to heal thy spirit’s eyes;
Only the soul hath power o’er itself.’ 
With that again there murmured ‘Nevermore!’
And Rhoecus after heard no other sound,
Except the rattling of the oak’s crisp leaves, 150
Like the long surf upon a distant shore,
Raking the sea-worn pebbles up and down. 
The night had gathered round him:  o’er the plain
The city sparkled with its thousand lights,
And sounds of revel fell upon his ear
Harshly and like a curse; above, the sky,
With all its bright sublimity of stars,
Deepened, and on his forehead smote the breeze: 
Beauty was all around him and delight,
But from that eve he was alone on earth. 160

THE FALCON

I know a falcon swift and peerless
  As e’er was cradled In the pine;
No bird had ever eye so fearless,
  Or wing so strong as this of mine.

The winds not better love to pilot
  A cloud with molten gold o’er run,
Than him, a little burning islet,
  A star above the coming sun.

For with a lark’s heart he doth tower,
  By a glorious upward instinct drawn;
No bee nestles deeper in the flower
  Than he in the bursting rose of dawn.

No harmless dove, no bird that singeth,
  Shudders to see him overhead;
The rush of his fierce swooping bringeth
  To innocent hearts no thrill of dread.

Let fraud and wrong and baseness shiver,
  For still between them and the sky
The falcon Truth hangs poised forever
  And marks them with his vengeful eye.

TRIAL

I

Whether the idle prisoner through his grate
Watches the waving of the grass-tuft small,
Which, having colonized its rift i’ th’ wall,
Accepts God’s dole of good or evil fate,
And from the sky’s just helmet draws its lot
Daily of shower or sunshine, cold or hot;—­
Whether the closer captive of a creed,
Cooped up from birth to grind out endless chaff,
Sees through his treadmill-bars the noonday laugh,
And feels in vain, his crumpled pinions breed;—­
Whether the Georgian slave look up and mark,
With bellying sails puffed full, the tall cloud-bark
Sink northward slowly,—­thou alone seem’st good,
Fair only thou, O Freedom, whose desire
Can light in muddiest souls quick seeds of fire,
And strain life’s chords to the old heroic mood.

II

Yet are there other gifts more fair than thine,
Nor can I count him happiest who has never
Been forced with his own hand his chains to sever,
And for himself find out the way divine;
He never knew the aspirer’s glorious pains,
He never earned the struggle’s priceless gains. 
Oh, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor,
Lifelong we build these human natures up
Into a temple fit for Freedom’s shrine,
And, Trial ever consecrates the cup
Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine.