call Of Duty. They who would be something more Than they who feast, and laugh and die, will hear The voice of Duty, as the note of war, Nerving their spirits to great enterprise, And knitting every sinew for the charge. It makes them quit a happy silvan life For contest in the roaring capital. And in its ever-widening roar stand firm And fixed amid the thunder, foot to foot With opposition, smiting for the truth. p. 167To such the rage of battle charms beyond The heaviest ocean-plunges dashed on cliffs, The tempest’s fury on the grinding woods, Or elemental crashing in the heavens: Beyond a lover’s gladness when he feels His maiden’s bosom throbbing tremulously, Beyond a father’s when he feels in hand The rounded warmth of little firstborn’s limb, Or in beholding him grown tall and strong: And their delight will never wane, but wax In greatness with the roll of time, and burn More brightly fed with noble deeds. For souls Obedient to divine impulse, who urge Their force in steadfastness until the rocks Be hewn of their obstruction, till the swamp’s Insatiability be choked and bound A hardened road for traffic and disport, Tall giant arches stride across the flood, Till tortured earth release its mysteries Which straight become slaves pliant unto man, Till labours at the desk at length result p. 168In law: who pondering on the stars proclaim Their size and distance and pursue their course; Who work whatever will give greater power Or profit man with leisure to observe The wondrous heavens and loveliness of earth; Who will instruct him in the truth whereby He learns to reverence more his fellow man; Who point his spirit to the worshipping Imperishable things, from which he comes To scorn the fluttering vanities of wealth As poisoned sweets and baubles should they dim His eyes one instant to that awful light Wherein he moves; who do and who have done All that has ever aided man to free Himself, imperfectly, from grosser self And made his seeing pure:—such souls sublime Will never want for blessed joy in work, Working for Duty which can never die. p. 167 p. 168 Men may seem playthings of ironic fate: One stoutly shod paces a velvet sward; p. 169And one is forced with naked feet to climb Sharp slaty ways alive with scorpions, While wolfish hunger strains to catch his throat; One lingers o’er his purple draught and laughs, One shuddering tastes his bitter cup and groans; But there is hope for all. Though not for all To sail through sunny ripples to the end, Chatting of shipwrecks as pathetic tales; All are not born to nurse the dainty pangs That herald love’s
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