XXVII.

For the strong spirit will at times awake, Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode; And, born of thee, she may not always take Earth’s accents for the oracles of God; And even for this--O dust, whose mask is power! Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little hour! Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, And therefore thou destroyest!--where were flown Our hopes, if man were left to man’s decree alone!