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.
(An added word yet to my song, far Discoverer, as ne’er before sent back to son of earth— If still thou hearest, hear me, Voicing as now—lands, races, arts, bravas to thee, O’er the long backward path to thee—one vast consensus, north, south, east, west, Soul plaudits! acclamation! reverent echoes! One manifold, huge memory to thee! oceans and lands! The modern world to thee and thought of thee!)