They were toys; these are weapons. They were
fancies; these are motives. The soul begins to struggle with the dust,
the sloth, the circumstance, that beleaguer humanity, and to stagger
into the van of action.
Perception, whose limits lay along a narrow horizon, now tops that
horizon, and spreads, and reaches toward the heaven of the Infinite.
The mind feels its birth, and struggles toward the great birth-master.
The heart glows; its humanities even yield and crimple under the fierce
heat of mental pride. Vows leap upward, and pile rampart upon rampart to
scale all the degrees of human power.
Are there not times in every man's life when there flashes on him a
feeling--nay, more, an absolute conviction--that this soul is but a
spark belonging to some upper fire; and that, by as much as we draw near
by effort, by resolve, by intensity of endeavor, to that upper fire, by
so much we draw nearer to our home, and mate ourselves with angels? Is
there not a ringing desire in many minds to seize hold of what floats
above us in the universe of thought, and drag down what shreds we can to
scatter to the world? Is it not belonging to greatness to catch
lightning from the plains where lightning lives, and curb it for the
handling of men?
Resolve is what makes a man manliest;--not puny resolve, not crude
determination, not errant purpose, but that strong and indefatigable
will which treads down difficulties and danger as a boy treads down the
heaving frost-lands of winter,--which kindles his eye and brain with a
proud pulse-beat toward the unattainable.
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