Bitter herbs to medicine a wrong,
Stinging thistles round a haunted charnel,
Or rich wines to make us glad and strong,—
Fitting fruits that to each mood belong.
While such power and scope to us are given,
Who shall bind us to the triumph-car
Of some victor soul, before us driven,
Earlier hero in the work and war,
Him to mimic, humbly and afar?
No! we will not stoop, and fawn and follow;