THROUGH such fierce hours thy brute fore-father won Thy mounting hope, the adventure of the son: Such pains astir his glooming heart within That nameless Creature wandered from his kin; Smote his broad breast, and, when the woods had rung To bellowing preludes of that thunderous tongue, With hopes half-born, with burning tears unshed, Bowed low his terrible and lonely head; With arms uncouth, with knees that scarce could kneel, Upraised his speechless ultimate appeal;— Ay, and heaven heard, and was with him, and gave The gift that made him master and not slave; Even in that stress and horror of his fate His thronging cry came half articulate, And some strange light, past knowing, past control, Rose in his eyes, and shone, and was a soul. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS by ABRAHAM LINCOLN MOUNTAIN LAUREL by ALFRED NOYES THE LITTLE REBEL by JOSEPH ASHBY-STERRY THE ROSEBUSH AND THE TRINITY by ALFRED BARRETT THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: THE FUGITIVE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON THE VAGABOND GROWN OLD by AMELIA JOSEPHINE BURR TIMON'S EPITAPH by CALLIMACHUS THE DREAM MAID (SUGGESTED BY GENE STRATTON PORTER'S 'THE HARVESTER') by HENRY CHAPPELL |