O far away, O far away,
Our father was the sun,
Our mother was the unknowing earth,
When day and night were one—
Ere ever hearts had found them out,
Or pain his race begun.

O far away, O far away,
Sun set the little spark
Of life I fan with my faint breath,
Earth made on me her mark—
Then turned her mother-face away,
And launched me in the dark.

Across the dark of pain and sigh,
Child of the sun I've come;
Daughter of earth doth languish here,
An exile from her home—
Doth hide her face before the light

What say
Bright leaves of day,
By the laughing wind caressed?

“All young things
Should dance in the sun:
There joy sings
To every one.”

What say
Sweet flowers of day,
That strive not, yet are blest?

“All young things
Should live in the sun:
There joy sings
To every one.”

What say
At shut of day,
Two bird-calls from the west?

“All young things
Should love in the sun:
There joy sings
To every one.”

The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took the chair;
On either side, the statesman pride of far Kentuck was there.
With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in his cheek
His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster rose to speak.

Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat,
And like a free American upon the floor he spat;
Then turning round to Clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin,
“What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter's skin?”

“Young man,” quoth Clay, “avoid the way of Slick of Tennessee;

I would I might behold
One little child
Grow up with naught but joy.
O my heart is sure
That child would be more pure,
More beautiful,
More wonderful,
Than any dream hath told—
Of a beauty without alloy.

But mayhap he would be too fair,
For our eyes as yet too rare …
For since the world with sorrow is defiled,
Even the Most Beautiful
Must our sorrow share.

From the world beyond my window blind
A wandering thought drifts down,
And still within my fallow mind—
A seed of song—'t is sown.

O urge of life, thy wind-blown seeds.
Strange fruits may bear unto men's needs.

O many men have thought this thought,
And many lips have striven
To utter it, and hands have sought
To shape it as 't was given.

And some have builded it in stone,
With it some sail the seas,
And some have sung it all alone
(And I am one of these).

And some have caught and held it fast,

With cassock black, baret and book,
Father Saran goes by;
I think he goes to say a prayer
For one who has to die.

Even so, some day, Father Saran
May say a prayer for me;
Myself meanwhile, the Sister tells,
Should pray unceasingly.

They kneel who pray: how may I kneel
Who face to ceiling lie,
Shut out by all that man has made
From God who made the sky?

They lift who pray—the low earth-born—
A humble heart to God:
But O, my heart of clay is proud—
True sister to the sod.

I look into the face of God,

Bidden to lay my hands in Grief's,
Bidden to bow my head,
To follow where he led:
The way was past my old beliefs.

Bidden to give to Grief a heart
By life so sore bereft
It scarce could be a gift:
I kept it not, nor any part.

Bidden to offer Grief my mind …
Foretaught in all Grief's ways,
It leapt the barrier-days
Of pain! Itself would forge and find.

In London once I lost my way
In faring to and fro,
And ask'd a little ragged boy
The way that I should go;
He gave a nod, and then a wink,
And told me to get there
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

I box'd his little saucy ears,
And then away I strode;
But since I've found that weary path
Is quite a common road.
Utopia is a pleasant place,
But how shall I get there?
“Straight down the Crooked Lane,
And all round the Square.”

I've read about a famous town
That drove a famous trade,

I will enjoy thee now, my Celia, come
And fly with me to love's Elysium.
The giant, Honor, that keeps cowards out,
Is but a masquer, and the servile rout
Of baser subjects only bend in vain
To the vast idol, whilst the nobler train
Of valiant lovers daily sail between
The huge Colossus' legs, and pass unseen
Unto the blissful shore. Be bold and wise,
And we shall enter; the grim Swiss denies
Only tame fools a passage, that not know
He is but form and only frights in show
The duller eyes that look from far; draw near,

So all this gallant blood has gushed in vain!
And Poland, by the Northern Condor's beak
And talons torn, lies prostrated again.
O British patriots, that were wont to speak
Once loudly on this theme, now hushed or meek!
O heartless men of Europe, Goth and Gaul!
Cold, adder-deaf to Poland's dying shriek!
That saw the world's last land of heroes fall!
The brand of burning shame is on you all—all—all!

But this is not the drama's closing act!
Its tragic curtain must uprise anew.
Nations, mute accessories to the fact!