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er 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 doers, with great works to be done; And lo, the startled earth already dips Back into light; a better day's begun; And soon this leader, teacher, will stand plain, And build the golden pipes and synthesize This people-organ for a holy strain. We hold this hope, and 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 With a monk's rope, like Luther? or pursue The goat, like Tell? or dry his nets in haste, Like Masaniello when the sky was blue? Keep house, like other peasants, with inlaced Bare brawny arms about a favourite child, And meditative looks beyond the door (But not to mark the kidling's teeth have filed The green shoots of his vine which last year bore Full twenty bunches), or, on triple-piled Throne-velvets sit at ease to bless the poor, Like other pontiffs, in the Poorest's name? The old tiara keeps itself aslope Upon his steady brows which, all the same, Bend mildly to permit the people's hope? Whatever hand shall grasp this oriflamme, Whatever man (last peasant or first pope Seeking to free his country) shall appear, Teach, lead, strike fire into the masses, fill These empty bladders with fine air, insphere These wills into a unity of will, And make of Italy a nation--dear And blessed be that man! the Heavens shall kill No leaf the earth lets grow for him, and Death Shall cast him back upon the lap of Life To live more surely, in a clarion-breath Of hero-music. Brutus with the knife, Rienzi with the fasces, throb beneath Rome's stones,--and more who threw away joy's fife Like Pallas, that the beauty of their souls Might ever shine untroubled and entire: But if it can be true that he who rolls The Church's thunders will reserve her fire For only light,--from eucharistic bowls Will pour new life
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