Heaven's horologe points forward on its way,
To-morrow's sunrise brings not back to-day.
The hour once struck shall never strike agen,
For laggard nations nor the souls of men.
Once in a life, it may be once alone,
Comes the stern fiat, "Do, or be undone!"
The hour, the moment, when a single word
Will strike the doom-bell, once forever heard
That rings a Hero to his golden crown,
Or to oblivion tolls the Dastard down.
Whatever sod his after steps may beat,
They tread the pathway of that hour's defeat,
Or, through the windings of unfathomed time,
To the full measure of its triumph climb.
No seeming fortune's momentary smile,
That crowns his brow with sunshine for a while,
Though giddy fools rush in with joys elate
To catch the golden droppings of his fate,
Shall ripen laurels at a glorious goal,
For him once branded "Craven," in his soul.
No seeming failure's supercilious frown,
That dims the daystar of his first renown,
Till his dark path is veiled in utter gloom,
Where boding ravens croak the words of doom—
While hearts of fear, and base-born parasites,
Fly from the dark, and flit round lower lights —
Can stain the splendors of his aureole,
Once written "Hero" on his living soul.
Since the bright stars that chronicle our fates
Only right forward swing their golden gates,
And souls, once gone on their returnless track,
What good they left, forevermore shall lack —
With this great hope, the nobler lives they live
Thenceforth, may win some bliss compensative —
Since erring nations, in an evil way
Can only speed to premature decay,
And to-day's guerdon must be won to-day —
Old graves are vocal, and the whirlpool-rocks
Wreck-beaconed murmur o'er their thunder-shocks,
The solemn voices of the immortal dead,
And the wild moan of wasted lives, ill-sped,
Swell the deep warning of the living Seer,
Choose well to-day your unrevoked career!
Now is the Crisis; the dead Past is gone,
And the swift Present seals her page anon;
This moment's action plants the good or ill
That, ages hence, will flourish greenly still.
And if to-day we reap the bitter tares
Our fathers sowed, self-willed or unawares,
With more hot earnest speaks the warning voice
To snatch this moment's unreturning choice,
To strike the furrow by the rigid line
Of human rights, which are indeed " divine,"
And fling broad-handed, over all the plain,
The golden seeds of truth and right again —
Freedom for all — the inviolable cot,
With its free fields, a consecrated spot.
And a broad charter for excursive thought
To seek new truth, and speak the truth she sought.
So the great Future may not learn to curse
A niggard toil that cultured bad to worse ;
But bless the hands that to her children gave
A teeming glebe unblighted by a slave,
And the fair boon of souls who dare to be
What God would have them, fearless, true, and free.
Decision, The
