Projected Lives

The Mother of the Boy has a life beyond her life, 
A presence that to cannot see, in the after toil and strife;
Is the fashion of his doing, in the color of his thought, 
And something in each work and word, her patient hand has wrought.

He is haunted by all shapes of good or evil, that went by,
Called by her breath to being, before his eager eye;
Her faith, her love and patience, in his nature are prolonged, 
And by all she fails in duty is the golden future wronged!

So the Teacher of the School-boy lives in him everywhere, 
Goes with him through his manhood, though invisible as air;
Her phantom hand, within them, gives power and purpose then, 
When pupil hands are clenching on scepter, sword or pen.

In the voice that shakes the forum is an accent that was caught
As the humble desk behind which the faithful maiden taught, 
And something of her patience, her gentleness and truth 
In the stormy flood of Action survives the calm of youth.

We mark the canning builder stretch out from sea to sea 
A path where the bridled Lightning may run for you and me;
Or where with the slower thunder rolls on the rolling Train, 
But few behold the hand that strung and tuned that cunning brain.

In every noble action is a pulse of some true heart 
That heat in another's bosom, transfused by genial art;
The unseen Master rules the rash of Fancy's fiery throng, 
In the thoughts that flash from Genius and overleap in song.

Even where the plodding farmer provokes the stubborn soil, 
The word of an olden Teacher takes the weariness from toil;
While kindly Science bends aright the carve of his gleaming plow,
‘Till the very ox is sharer in the fruits of knowledge, now.

Tis a long arm, and a strong one, that can reach and work so well,
Far into the misty future beyond where tongue can tell;
And wise are they who heed it, and crown with honors just 
The head that guides that guiding arm, before it turns to dust.