Trial

I Whether the idle prisoner through his grate Watches the waving of the grass-tuft small, Which, having colonized its rift i' th' wall, Accepts God's dole of good or evil fate, And from the sky's just helmet draws its lot Daily of shower or sunshine, cold or hot;- Whether the closer captive of a creed, Cooped up from birth to grind out endless chaff, Sees through his treadmill-bars the noonday laugh, And feels in vain, his crumpled pinions breed;- Whether the Georgian slave look up and mark, With bellying sails puffed full, the tall cloud-bark Sink northward slowly,-thou alone seem'st good, Fair only thou, O Freedom, whose desire Can light in muddiest souls quick seeds of fire, And strain life's chords to the old heroic mood. II Yet are there other gifts more fair than thine, Nor can I count him happiest who has never Been forced with his own hand his chains to sever, And for himself find out the way divine; He never knew the aspirer's glorious pains, He never earned the struggle's priceless gains. Oh, block by block, with sore and sharp endeavor, Lifelong we build these human natures up Into a temple fit for Freedom's shrine, And, Trial ever consecrates the cup Wherefrom we pour her sacrificial wine.