And will it be the grim black bulk,
That towers so evil now?
Or will it be The Grace of God,
With the angel at her prow?
The man that breathes the battle's breath
May live at last to know;
But the trumpeter lies sick to death
In the stifling dark below.
He hears the fight above him rave;
He fears his mates must yield;
He lies as in a narrow grave
Beneath a battle-field.
His fate will fall before the ship's,
Whate'er the ship betide;
He lifts the trumpet to his lips
As though he kissed a bride.
"Now blow thy best, blow thy last,
My trumpet, for the Right!"—
He has sent his soul in one strong blast,
To hearten them that fight.
COMRADES
"Oh, whither, whither, rider toward the west?"
"And whither, whither, rider toward the east?"
"I rode we ride upon the same high quest,
Whereon who enters may not be released;
"To seek the Cup whose form none ever saw,—
A nobler form than e'er was shapen yet,
Though million million cups without a flaw,
Afire with gems, on princes' boards are set;
"To seek the Wine whereof none ever had
One draught, though many a generous wine flows free,—
The spiritual blood that shall make glad
The hearts of mighty men that are to be."
"But shall one find it, brother? Where I ride,
Men mock and stare, who never had the dream,
Yet hope within my breast has never died."
"Nor ever died in mine that trembling gleam."