Ah me! old hermits sought for solitude
In caves and desert places of the earth, 200
Where their own heart-beat was the only stir
Of living thing that comforted the year;
But the bald pillar-top of Simeon,
In midnight’s blankest waste, were populous,
Matched with the isolation drear and deep
Of him who pines among the swarm of men,
At once a new thought’s king and prisoner,
Feeling the truer life within his life,
The fountain of his spirit’s prophecy,
Sinking away and wasting, drop by drop, 210
In the ungrateful sands of sceptic ears. 
He in the palace-aisles of untrod woods
Doth walk a king; for him the pent-up cell
Widens beyond the circles of the stars,
And all the sceptred spirits of the past
Come thronging in to greet him as their peer;
But in the market-place’s glare and throng
He sits apart, an exile, and his brow
Aches with the mocking memory of its crown.

Yet to the spirit select there is no choice; 220
He cannot say, This will I do, or that,
For the cheap means putting Heaven’s ends in pawn,
And bartering his bleak rocks, the freehold stern
Of destiny’s first-born, for smoother fields
That yield no crop of self-denying will;
A hand is stretched to him from out the dark,
Which grasping without question, he is led
Where there is work that he must do for God. 
The trial still is the strength’s complement,
And the uncertain, dizzy path that scales 230
The sheer heights of supremest purposes
Is steeper to the angel than the child. 
Chances have laws as fixed as planets have,
And disappointment’s dry and bitter root,
Envy’s harsh berries, and the choking pool
Of the world’s scorn, are the right mother-milk
To the tough hearts that pioneer their kind,
And break a pathway to those unknown realms
That in the earth’s broad shadow lie enthralled; 239
Endurance is the crowning quality,
And patience all the passion of great hearts;
These are their stay, and when the leaden world
Sets its hard face against their fateful thought,
And brute strength, like the Gaulish conqueror,
Clangs his huge glaive down in the other scale,
The inspired soul but flings his patience in,
And slowly that outweighs the ponderous globe,—­
One faith against a whole earth’s unbelief,
One soul against the flesh of all mankind.

Thus ever seems it when my soul can hear 250
The voice that errs not; then my triumph gleams,
O’er the blank ocean beckoning, and all night
My heart flies on before me as I sail;
Far on I see my lifelong enterprise. 
That rose like Ganges mid the freezing snows
Of a world’s solitude, sweep broadening down,
And, gathering to itself a thousand streams,
Grow sacred ere it mingle with the sea;
I see the ungated wall of chaos old,
With blocks Cyclopean hewn of solid night, 260
Fade like a wreath of unreturning mist
Before the irreversible feet of light;—­
And lo, with what clear omen in the east
On day’s gray threshold stands the eager dawn,
Like young Leander rosy from the sea
Glowing at Hero’s lattice!