Not, by thy ease or pleasure:—and no good
Or glory of this life but comes by pain.
How poor were earth if all its martrydoms,
If all its struggling sighs of sacrifice
Were swept away, and all were satiate-smooth,
If this were such a heaven of soul and sense
As some have dreamed of;—and we human still.
Nay, we were fashioned not for perfect peace
In this world, howsoever in the next:
And what we win and hold is through some strife.”