As it moves changing, a kaleidoscope divine it moves changing, before us.

Not the errand-bearing princes, nor the tanned Japanee

only;

Lithe and silent, the Hindoo appears the whole Asiatic continent itself appears—the Past, the dead,

The murky night-morning of wonder and fable, inscrutable, The enveloped mysteries, the old and unknown hive-bees, The North—the sweltering South—Assyria—the Hebrews —the ancient of ancients,

Vast desolated cities—the gliding Present—all of these, and more, are in the pageant-procession.

Geography, the world, is in it;

The Great Sea, the brood of islands, Polynesia, the coast beyond;

The coast you henceforth are facing—you Libertad! from your Western golden shores;

The countries there, with their populations—the millions en masse, are curiously here;

The swarming market-places—the temples, with idols ranged along the sides, or at the end—bonze, brahmin, and lama;

The mandarin, farmer, merchant, mechanic, and fisher

man;

The singing-girl and the dancing-girl—the ecstatic person

—the divine Buddha;

The secluded Emperors—Confucius himself—the great poets and heroes—the warriors, the castes, all, Trooping up, crowding from all directions—from the Altay mountains,

From Thibet—from the four winding and far-flowing rivers of China,

from the Southern peninsulas, and the demi-continental islands from Malaysia;

These, and whatever belongs to them, palpable, show forth

to me, and are seized by me,

And I am seized by them, and friendlily held by them, Till, as here, them all I chant, Libertad! for themselves and for you.

5.

For I too, raising my voice, join the ranks of this pageant ; I am the chanter—I chant aloud over the pageant;

I chant the world on my Western Sea;

I chant, copious, the islands beyond, thick as stars in the

sky;

I chant the new empire, grander than any before—As in a vision it comes to me;

I chant America, the Mistress—I chant a greater supre

macy;

I chant, projected, a thousand blooming cities yet, in time, on those groups of sea-islands;

I chant my sail-ships and steam-ships threading the archi

pelagoes;

I chant my stars and stripes fluttering in the wind;

I chant commerce opening, the sleep of ages having done its work—races reborn, refreshed;

Lives, works, resumed—The object I know not—but the old, the Asiatic, resumed, as it must be,

Commencing from this day, surrounded by the world.

And you, Libertad of the world!

You shall sit in the middle, well-poised, thousands of

years;

As to-day, from one side, the Princes of Asia come to

you;

As to-morrow, from the other side, the Queen of England sends her eldest son to you.

The sign is reversing, the orb is enclosed,
The ring is circled, the journey is done;

The box-lid is but perceptibly opened—nevertheless the

With the venerable Asia, the all-mother,

Be considerate with her, now and ever, hot Libertad—for

you are all ;

Bend your proud neck to the long-off mother, now sending messages over the archipelagoes to you: Bend your proud neck low for once, young Libertad.

7.

Were the children straying westward Bo long? so wide the

tramping?

Were the precedent dim ages debouching westward from Paradise so long?

Were the centuries steadily footing it that way, all the while unknown, for you, for reasons?

They are justified—they are accomplished—they shall now be turned the other way also, to travel toward you thence;

They shall now also march obediently eastward, for your sake, Libertad.

OLD IRELAND.

I.

FAR hence, amid an isle of wondrous beauty,

FA

Crouching over a grave, an ancient sorrowful mother, Once a queen—now lean and tattered, seated on the ground,

Her old white hair drooping dishevelled round her

shoulders;

At her feet fallen an unused royal harp,

Long silent—she too long silent—mourning her shrouded hope and heir;

Of all the earth her heart most full of sorrow, because most full of love.

Yet a word, ancient mother;

2.

You need crouch there no longer on the cold ground, with forehead between your knees;

O you need not sit there, veiled in your old white hair, so dishevelled;

For know you, the one you mourn is not in that grave; It was an illusion—the heir, the son you love, was not really dead;

The Lord is not dead—he is risen again, young and strong, in another country;

Even while you wept there by your fallen harp, by the

grave,

What you wept for was translated, passed from the

grave,

The winds favoured, and the sea sailed it,

And now with rosy and new blood,

Moves to-day in a new country.

M