And next, pure hands of youth in hands of age
Were held upon the page
Of the illuminate missal, full of prayers,—
Rich fields, wherethrough the river of souls has rushed
Long, long, to have its passion held and hushed
In the breast of that calm sea whereto it fares:
And steadfastly the aspirant vow did plight
To bear the sword, or break it, for the Right;
And living well his life, yet hold it light,—
Yea, for that sovereign sake a worthless thing.