A Cadet. Fine-looking fellow Nelson-was, I guess?
First Sergeant. To look at? No, a little, thin, pale man
With a long queue, one arm, and but one eye,
But that a blazer!
Second Militiaman. These little uns has lots o' spunk:
Boney's a little un, I've heerd.
First Private. Just so: and Wellington ain't big.
Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full height).
Come, boys, you're getting personal. See me!
If none but little men may win renown,
I hope I'm two in one, for your sakes.
And you forget the lion-hearted Brock.
All (interrupting him). No! no! no!
Fitzgibbon. A man of height exceeding any here,
And yet whose alt of metred inches
Nobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould,
And vested in the blazonments of rule,
Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight
As was his soul. Who than ye better knew
His bravery; his lofty heroism;
[!-- Begin Page 53 --] His purity, and great unselfish heart?
Nature in him betrayed no niggard touch
Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield
That men of lesser mould in outward form
Have been as great in deeds of rich renown.
But then, I take it, greatness lies not in
The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great
Who from the quick occasion of the time
Strikes out a name. And he is also great
Who, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe,
And binds on hoary locks the laurel crown.
Each is a high exemplar.
One with concentrate vigour strikes a blow
That rings around the world; the other draws
The world round him—his mighty throes
And well-contested standpoints win its praise
And force its verdict, though bleak indifference—
A laggard umpire—long neglect his post,
And often leaves the wrestler's best unnoted,
Coming but just in time to mark his thews
And training, and so decides: while the loud shock
Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast,
And from his careless hand snatches the proud award.
But mark me, men, he who is ever great
Has greatness made his aim—
The sudden blow or long-protracted strife
Yields not its secret to the untrained hand.
True, one may cast his statue at a heat,
But yet the mould was there;
And he who chips the marble, bit by bit,
Into a noble form, sees all the while
His image in the block.
There are who make a phantom of their aim—
See it now here, now there, in this, in that,
But never in the line of simple duty;
Such will accomplish nothing but their shame:
For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark;
[!-- Begin Page 54 --] And, just as the pursuit diverges from it,
Greatness evanishes, and notoriety
Misleads the suitor. I'd have you think of this.
All. Aye, aye, sir.
Fitzgibbon. Order the lights, for darkness falls apace,
And I must write.
[Exit First Private.