Say, doth not the soldier rejoice
If placed by his chief at the van?
As spirit, submit to the choice
The noble would welcome as man.
"Farewell to the splendour of light!"
The Greek could exulting exclaim,
Resign'd to the Hades of Night,
To live in the air as a name.
Could he, for a future so vain,
Every pang in the present control,
Yet thou of a moment complain
In thine infinite life as a soul?
Like thee, do not millions receive
Their chalice embitter'd with gall?
If good be creation—believe
That good which is common to all!
In evil itself, to the glance
Of the wise, half the riddles are clear
Were wisdom but perfect, perchance,
The rest might in love disappear.
The thunder that scatters the pest
May be but a type of the whole;
And storms which have darken'd the breast
May bring but its health to the soul.
Can earth, where the harrow is driven,
The sheaf in the furrow foresee,—
Or thou guess the harvest of heaven
Where iron has enter'd in thee?