Oh, it is great to do and know not what,
Nor let it e’er be known. The dashing stream
Stays not to pick his steps among the rocks,
Or let his water-breaks be chronicled.
And though the hunter looks before he leap,
’Tis instinct rather than a shaped-out thought
That lifts him his bold way. Then, instinct, hail!
And farewell hesitation. If I stay,
I am not innocent; nor if I go—
E’en should I fall—beyond redemption lost.