Chapter XX

Man, little man, whose sun hath not declined,
Pale man with spirit written on his face,
Punched out of clay, and pitched on some mean place,
A breath of being battling with the wind,
A prisoner on Time’s floating isle confined,
Yet in himself encompassing all space,
While with the regal gesture of his race
He sweeps Eternity into his mind!
The Spirit! The Encompasser! O thou,
England my country, could I but behold
The steadiness of spirit on thy brow,
Could’st thou _encompass_ spirit, I should hold
Thee master of the Future as the Past,
The immortal, perfect nation--and the last.

HESEPE, _21st July_