And Death hangs close behind thee on the right.
Soon flag the flying feet, soon fails the sight,
With every pulse the gaunt pursuers gain;
And all thy splendour of strong life must wane
And set into the mystery of night.
Yet fear not, though in falling, blindness hide
Whose hand shall snatch, before it sears the sod,
The light thy lessening grasp no more controls:
Truth’s rescuer, Truth shall instantly provide:
This is the torch-race game, that noblest souls