Thousands and thousands of miles hence, and now four centuries back, A mortal impulse thrilling its brain cell, Reck’d or unreck’d, the birth can no longer be postpon’d: A phantom of the moment, mystic, stalking, sudden, Only a silent thought, yet toppling down of more than walls of brass or stone. (A flutter at the darkness’ edge as if old Time’s and Space’s secret near revealing.) A thought! a definite thought works out in shape. Four hundred years roll on. The rapid cumulus⁠—trade, navigation, war, peace, democracy, roll on; The restless armies and the fleets of time following their leader⁠—the old camps of ages pitch’d in newer, larger areas, The tangl’d, long-deferr’d éclaircissement of human life and hopes boldly begins untying, As here to-day up-grows the Western World.