Classic Poem

The world reserves its honors for
The smooth accommodator,
But trembles when the gods send forth
The stalwart innovator.

There stands the Luther of our age,
The soul that smiles at fear,
The scorner of the idols which
The multitudes revere.

A Saul among the people, how
He tow'rs above the crowd,
And stands alone, like Teneriffe,
Enwrapt with mystic shroud!

An individuality!
A great embodied will!
The non-conforming principle!
A soul that can't be still!

He bears the stamp of character—
No written one he brings;
He's Rectitude, ordain'd to sit
In judgment upon kings!

He throws a living energy
Around him like a zone;
He conquers, or he fascinates,
By virtue all his own.

For him the prophets prophesy,
For him the poets sing,
And messengers from higher worlds
Are ever on the wing.

A soul of love and reverence,
A spirit that adores;
And yet there is a height to which
That spirit never soars.

A heart imbued with holy awe,
A spirit that can bow;
And yet the pride of Lucifer
Sits on that cliff-like brow.

Kingdoms may flourish, or may fade,
And thrones may sink or swim;
Great battles may be lost or won,
It matters not to him.

And politicians, with their strife
And little party spleen,
They but appear to him like geese
That gabble on the green.

Think ye, poor fools, the great God can
Be voted out or in?
Or human laws give permanence
To virtue or to sin?

A moody man! now dogg'd to death
With spectres gaunt and grim;
And now the fiend himself has got
Dominion over him.

“This world is all a dance of apes,”
And love and hope are vain;
And now he roars and bellows like
A god become insane!

“Attend, ye Miserables all!
LeTheav'n and earth be still!
I issue all my oracles
By virtue of my will!

“Come, Priesthoods, Popedoms, Lit'rateurs,
And prove to me your worth,
Or with destruction's besom I
Will sweep you from the earth!”

Anon he's on a wide, wide sea,
With wrecks all drifting round;
Grim Death's the steersman of the ship,
And for his shores they're bound.

This solid world is all afloat,
The stars around him spinning;
Deep under deep, height over height,
The end is the beginning.

A phantom ship, a phantom shore,
All's fleeting and unstable,
A panorama of the soul,
Her fancywork, her fable!

But of this strange, erratic soul
'Tis little we can know,
For greatness never wore a garb
That was put on for show.

On Being's path he glares aghast,
And utters but a scream;
His dream of life, tho' dark indeed,
Is still a giant's dream.