Classic Poem

I read of battles with their thousands slain,
Of plagues that buried myriads side by side,
Of savage hordes that seem'd to live in vain,
And, unregretted, died

And through the histories — sacred and profane —
What hecatombs of unknown dead I see, —
And marvel if at death they rose again,
And if all these still be!

That Shakspeare lives, we easily believe, —
The wonder were that such could ever die
But those unthinking swarms! who can conceive
How they should live, or why?

Why not? If here life's lowly ends they serve,
May there not be hereafter lowly ends?
The ruder mission for the ruder nerve:
One makes — one only mends

Their numbers shake us? — Though the stars had been,
Like earth, each one the cradle of a race,
And all immortal, there were room within
The eternal dwelling-place

For infinite as space, and in its needs
As various as creation, it demands
All modes of being, intellect, and creeds,
Outnumbering the sands.