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Suddenly
,
the
dawn
came
;
the
east
burned
roseate
toward
the
zenith
.
Vanamee
walked
on
,
he
knew
not
where
.
The
dawn
grew
brighter
.
At
length
,
he
paused
upon
the
crest
of
a
hill
overlooking
the
ranchos
,
and
cast
his
eye
below
him
to
the
southward
.
Then
,
suddenly
flinging
up
his
arms
,
he
uttered
a
great
cry
.
There
it
was
.
The
Wheat
!
The
Wheat
!
In
the
night
it
had
come
up
.
It
was
there
,
everywhere
,
from
margin
to
margin
of
the
horizon
.
The
earth
,
long
empty
,
teemed
with
green
life
.
Once
more
the
pendulum
of
the
seasons
swung
in
its
mighty
arc
,
from
death
back
to
life
.
Life
out
of
death
,
eternity
rising
from
out
dissolution
.
There
was
the
lesson
.
Angele
was
not
the
symbol
,
but
the
PROOF
of
immortality
.
The
seed
dying
,
rotting
and
corrupting
in
the
earth
;
rising
again
in
life
unconquerable
,
and
in
immaculate
purity
,
—
Angele
dying
as
she
gave
birth
to
her
little
daughter
,
life
springing
from
her
death
,
—
the
pure
,
unconquerable
,
coming
forth
from
the
defiled
.
Why
had
he
not
had
the
knowledge
of
God
?
Thou
fool
,
that
which
thou
sowest
is
not
quickened
except
it
die
.
So
the
seed
had
died
.
So
died
Angele
.
And
that
which
thou
sowest
,
thou
sowest
not
that
body
that
shall
be
,
but
bare
grain
.
It
may
chance
of
wheat
,
or
of
some
other
grain
.
The
wheat
called
forth
from
out
the
darkness
,
from
out
the
grip
of
the
earth
,
of
the
grave
,
from
out
corruption
,
rose
triumphant
into
light
and
life
.
So
Angele
,
so
life
,
so
also
the
resurrection
of
the
dead
.
It
is
sown
in
corruption
.
It
is
raised
in
incorruption
.
It
is
sown
in
dishonour
.
It
is
raised
in
glory
.
It
is
sown
in
weakness
.
It
is
raised
in
power
.
Death
was
swallowed
up
in
Victory
.
The
sun
rose
.
The
night
was
over
.
The
glory
of
the
terrestrial
was
one
,
and
the
glory
of
the
celestial
was
another
Then
,
as
the
glory
of
sun
banished
the
lesser
glory
of
moon
and
stars
,
Vanamee
,
from
his
mountain
top
,
beholding
the
eternal
green
life
of
the
growing
Wheat
,
bursting
its
bonds
,
and
in
his
heart
exulting
in
his
triumph
over
the
grave
,
flung
out
his
arms
with
a
mighty
shout
:
“
Oh
,
Death
,
where
is
thy
sting
?
Oh
,
Grave
,
where
is
thy
victory
?
”
Presley
’
s
Socialistic
poem
,
“
The
Toilers
,
”
had
an
enormous
success
.
The
editor
of
the
Sunday
supplement
of
the
San
Francisco
paper
to
which
it
was
sent
,
printed
it
in
Gothic
type
,
with
a
scare
-
head
title
so
decorative
as
to
be
almost
illegible
,
and
furthermore
caused
the
poem
to
be
illustrated
by
one
of
the
paper
’
s
staff
artists
in
a
most
impressive
fashion
.
The
whole
affair
occupied
an
entire
page
.
Thus
advertised
,
the
poem
attracted
attention
.
It
was
promptly
copied
in
New
York
,
Boston
,
and
Chicago
papers
.
It
was
discussed
,
attacked
,
defended
,
eulogised
,
ridiculed
.
It
was
praised
with
the
most
fulsome
adulation
;
assailed
with
the
most
violent
condemnation
.
Editorials
were
written
upon
it
.
Special
articles
,
in
literary
pamphlets
,
dissected
its
rhetoric
and
prosody
.
The
phrases
were
quoted
,
—
were
used
as
texts
for
revolutionary
sermons
,
reactionary
speeches
.
It
was
parodied
;
it
was
distorted
so
as
to
read
as
an
advertisement
for
patented
cereals
and
infants
’
foods
.
Finally
,
the
editor
of
an
enterprising
monthly
magazine
reprinted
the
poem
,
supplementing
it
by
a
photograph
and
biography
of
Presley
himself
.
Presley
was
stunned
,
bewildered
.
He
began
to
wonder
at
himself
.
Was
he
actually
the
“
greatest
American
poet
since
Bryant
”
?
He
had
had
no
thought
of
fame
while
composing
“
The
Toilers
.
”
He
had
only
been
moved
to
his
heart
’
s
foundations
,
—
thoroughly
in
earnest
,
seeing
clearly
,
—
and
had
addressed
himself
to
the
poem
’
s
composition
in
a
happy
moment
when
words
came
easily
to
him
,
and
the
elaboration
of
fine
sentences
was
not
difficult
.
Was
it
thus
fame
was
achieved
?
For
a
while
he
was
tempted
to
cross
the
continent
and
go
to
New
York
and
there
come
unto
his
own
,
enjoying
the
triumph
that
awaited
him
.
But
soon
he
denied
himself
this
cheap
reward
.
Now
he
was
too
much
in
earnest
.
He
wanted
to
help
his
People
,
the
community
in
which
he
lived
—
the
little
world
of
the
San
Joaquin
,
at
grapples
with
the
Railroad
.
The
struggle
had
found
its
poet
.
He
told
himself
that
his
place
was
here
.
Only
the
words
of
the
manager
of
a
lecture
bureau
troubled
him
for
a
moment
.
To
range
the
entire
nation
,
telling
all
his
countrymen
of
the
drama
that
was
working
itself
out
on
this
fringe
of
the
continent
,
this
ignored
and
distant
Pacific
Coast
,
rousing
their
interest
and
stirring
them
up
to
action
—
appealed
to
him
.
It
might
do
great
good
.
To
devote
himself
to
“
the
Cause
,
”
accepting
no
penny
of
remuneration
;
to
give
his
life
to
loosing
the
grip
of
the
iron
-
hearted
monster
of
steel
and
steam
would
be
beyond
question
heroic
.
Other
States
than
California
had
their
grievances
.
All
over
the
country
the
family
of
cyclops
was
growing
.
He
would
declare
himself
the
champion
of
the
People
in
their
opposition
to
the
Trust
.
He
would
be
an
apostle
,
a
prophet
,
a
martyr
of
Freedom
.
But
Presley
was
essentially
a
dreamer
,
not
a
man
of
affairs
.
He
hesitated
to
act
at
this
precise
psychological
moment
,
striking
while
the
iron
was
yet
hot
,
and
while
he
hesitated
,
other
affairs
near
at
hand
began
to
absorb
his
attention
.
