was all he asked to make desirable "this earth, our hermitage."
That this life leads to nothing more does not daunt him.
"On every hand the roads begin,
And people walk with zeal therein,
But wheresoe'er the highways tend
Be sure there's nothing at the end."
To which he adds cheerfully:
"Hail and farewell! I must arise,
Leave here the fatted cattle,
And paint on foreign lands and skies
My Odyssey of battle.
"The untented Cosmos my abode,
I pass, a wilful stranger;
My mistress still the open road
And the bright eyes of danger.
"Come ill or well, the Cross, the Crown,
The rainbow, or the thunder,
I fling my soul and body down
For God to plow them under."
He will allow no mistake as to the purpose of his existence. He cares not what may lie beyond the portals of an undreaded death, but this bright, present existence is for manful struggle; a struggle not maintained in hope of future, or terror of punishment, but because he loves not only
"Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall,
A bin of wine, a spice of wit,
A house with lawns enclosing it,
A living river by the door,
A nightingale in the sycamore"—
but loves also to