Page:Prometheus Bound, and other poems.djvu/200

194 "Væ! meá culpâ!" is not like to stand A freedman at a despot's, and dispute His titles by the balance in his hand, Weighing them "suo jure." Tend the root, If careful of the branches; and expand The inner souls of men, before you strive For civic heroes.

But the teacher, where? From all these crowded faces, all alive,— Eyes, of their own lids flashing themselves bare,— And brows that with a mobile life contrive A deeper shadow,—may we no wise dare To point a finger out, and touch a man, And cry "this is the leader." What, all these!— Broad heads, black eyes,—yet not a soul that ran From God down with a message? All, to please The donna waving measures with her fan, And not the judgment-angel on his knees— The trumpet just an inch off from his lips— Who when he breathes next, will put out the sun? Yet mankind's self were foundered in eclipse, If lacking, with a great work to be done, A doer. No, the earth already dips Back into light—a better day's begun— And soon this doer, teacher, will stand plain, And build the golden pipes and synthesize This people-organ for a holy strain: And we who hope thus, still in all these eyes, Go sounding for the deep look which shall drain Suffused thought into channelled enterprise! Where is the teacher? What now may he do, Who shall do greatly? Doth he gird his waist