Thy gathering fugue goes rolling on,
From Maine to utmost Oregon;
The factory-wheels a rhythmus hum;
From brawling parties concords come;--
All this I hear, or seem to hear;
But when, enchanted, I draw near
To fix in notes the various theme,
Life seems a whiff of kitchen-steam,
History a Swiss street-singer's thrum,
And I, that would have fashioned words
To mate that music's rich accords,
By rash approaches startle thee,
Thou mutablest Perversity!
The world drones on its old _tum-tum_,
But thou hast slipped from it and me,
And all thine organ-pipes left dumb.

Not wearied yet, I still must seek,
And hope for luck next day, next week.
I go to see the great man ride,
Ship-like, the swelling human tide
That floods to bear him into port,
Trophied from senate-hall or court:
Thy magnetism, I feel it there,
Thy rhythmic presence fleet and rare,
Making the mob a moment fine
With glimpses of their own Divine,
As in their demigod they see
Their swart ideal soaring free;
'Tis thou that bear'st the fire about,