When the one cub of the lordly lions
Strikes the earth and shakes his bristling mane,
Forth they lash him, though he growl defiance,
O'er the sand-waste to pursue his gain,--
Shaggy Nimrod of the desert plain!
Still the eagles watch out from the eyrie
On the mountains, their young heirs to screen;
The old lions on the hot sand-prairie,--
If some peril track their cub,--unseen,
Stealthier than the Bedouin, glide between.
So the noblest of earth's creatures noble
Are cast forth to find their way alone,
So our manhood, in its day of trouble,
Is but crowded from the sheltering zone
And broad love-wings, to achieve its throne.
We are left to battle, not forsaken,
Watched in secret by our awful Sire;
Left to conquer, lest our spirits weaken,
And forget to wrestle and aspire,
Finding all things prompter than desire.
He hath hid the everlasting presence
Of his Godhead from the world he made,
Veiled his incommunicable essence
In thick darkness of thick clouds arrayed,
On our bold search flashing through the shade.
We are gods in veritable seeming
When we struggle for our vacant thrones,
But are earthlings beyond God's redeeming
While we lean, and creep, and beg in moans,
And base kneeling cramps our knitted bones.
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