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110 I am he who tauntingly compels men, women,
 * nations, to leap from their seats and contend
 * for their lives.

I am he who goes through the streets with a barbed
 * tongue, questioning every one I meet—questioning
 * you up there now:

Who are you, that wanted only to be told what you
 * knew before?

Who are you, that wanted only a book to join you in
 * your nonsense?

Are you, or would you be, better than all that has
 * ever been before?

If you would be better than all that has ever been
 * before, come listen to me, and not otherwise.

Fear grace—Fear delicatesse, Fear the mellow sweet, the sucking of honey-juice, Beware the advancing mortal ripening of nature, Beware what precedes the decay of the ruggedness of
 * states and men.

Ages, precedents, poems, have long been accumulating
 * undirected materials,

America brings builders, and brings its own styles.

Mighty bards have done their work, and passed to
 * other spheres,

One work forever remains, the work of surpassing all
 * they have done.

America, curious toward foreign characters, stands by
 * its own at all hazards,