But though Time delights in dealing
Wounds which he alone can heal,
And the sorrows wed to feeling
Make it misery to feel;
Nobler than the soulless Stoic,
He, who, like the Theban chief,
Till the fight is won, heroic
Hides the rankling dart of grief.
Lords of an immortal glory
Be the slaves of mortal shame!
No; though Martyrdom before ye
Rear a precipice of flame.
On the barriers that dismay us
Carve the charter of your birth;
True endurance, like Antæus,
Strengthens with each cast to earth.
Wayward man too often fritters
Living destinies away,
Chasing a mirage that glitters
To bewilder and betray.
Then press upward in the vanguard;
Be not guided by the blind;
For when Vigor waves the standard
Triumph is not far behind.
It was that which led the marches
Through the Revolution's snows,
And through Jena's fiery arches
Rolled destruction on its foes.
Then if failure blunt your spirit,
Think of this before you swerve:
He has glory who has merit—
It is royal to deserve.