The Poet

(See Note 72)     The poet does the prophet's deeds;     In times of need with new life pregnant,     When strife and suffering are regnant,     His faith with light ideal leads.     The past its heroes round him posts,     He rallies now the present's hosts,             The future opes             Before his eyes,             Its pictured hopes             He prophesies.         Ever his people's forces vernal         The poet frees, - by right eternal.     He turns the people's trust to doubt     Of heathendom and Moloch-terror;     'Neath thought of God, cold-gray with error,     He sees grow green each fresh, new sprout.     Set free, these spread abroad, above,     Bear fruit of power and of love             In each man's soul,             And make it warm             And make it whole,             In wrath transform,         Till light and courage fill the nation:         In life is God's best revelation.     Away the kingly cloak he tears     And on the people's shoulder places,     So it no more need make grimaces     To borrowed clothes some highness wears,     But be itself its majesty     In right of spirit-dynasty,             In saga's light             On heart and brain,             In men of might             From its loins ta'en,         In will unbiased and unbroken,         In manly deed and bold word spoken.     His songs the nation's sins chastise,     He hates a lie, as truth's high teacher     (No Sunday-, but a weekday-preacher,     Who, suffering, still the wrong defies).     Against false peace he plies his lance,     'Gainst cowardice and ignorance, -             No bribe he knows             From nation's hand             Nor king's command;             But his way goes.         And when he wavers, sorrow scourges         His heart and free of passion purges.     He is a brother of the small,     Of women, as of all who suffer,     The new and weak, when waves grow rougher,     He steers, till fairer breezes fall.     Greater he grows without his will     By deeds his calling to fulfil,             And near the tomb             To God he sighs,             That soon may rise             A richer bloom         To deck his people's soul with flowers         Of beauty far beyond his powers.