"Or make that morn, from his cold crown And crystal silence creeping down, Flood with full daylight glebe and town? "Forerun thy peers, thy time, and let Thy feet, millenniums hence, be set In midst of knowledge, dream'd not yet. "Thou hast not gain'd a real height, Nor art thou nearer to the light, ""Twere better not to breathe or speak, Than cry for strength, remaining weak, And seem to find, but still to seek. "Moreover, but to seem to find Asks what thou lackest, thought resign'd, A healthy frame, a quiet mind.” I said, “When I am gone away, 'He dared not tarry,' men will say, Doing dishonour to my clay." "This is more vile," he made reply, "To breathe and loathe, to live and sigh, Than once from dread of pain to die. "Sick art thou-a divided will Still heaping on the fear of ill The fear of men, a coward still. "Do men love thee? Art thou so bound To men, that how thy name may sound Will vex thee lying underground? "The memory of the wither'd leaf In endless time is scarce more brief Than of the garner'd Autumn-sheaf. "Go, vexed Spirit, sleep in trust; The right ear, that is fill'd with dust, “Hard task, to pluck resolve," I cried, "From emptiness and the waste wide Of that abyss, or scornful pride! "Nay-rather yet that I could raise One hope that warm'd me in the days While still I yearn'd for human praise. “When, wide in soul and bold of tongue, Among the tents I paused and sung, The distant battle flash'd and rung. "I sung the joyful Pæan clear, The brand, the buckler, and the spear— "Waiting to strive a happy strife, To war with falsehood to the knife, And not to lose the good of life— "Some hidden principle to move, To put together, part and prove, And mete the bounds of hate and love "As far as might be, to carve out Free space for every human doubt, That the whole mind might orb about— "To search thro' all I felt or saw, The springs of life, the depths of awe, "At least, not rotting like a weed, But, having sown some generous seed, Fruitful of further thought and deed, |