XXI.‘ FAINT YET PURSUING.’

Heroic Good, target for which the young

Dream in their dreams that every bow is strung,

And, missing, sigh

Unfruitful, or as disbelievers die,

Thee having miss'd, I will not so revolt,

But lowlier shoot my bolt,

And lowlier still, if still I may not reach,

And my proud stomach teach

That less than highest is good, and may be high.

An even walk in life's uneven way,

Though to have dreamt of flight and not to fly

Be strange and sad,

Is not a boon that's given to all who pray.

If this I had

I'd envy none!

Nay, trod I straight for one

Year, month or week,

Should Heaven withdraw, and Satan me amerce

Of power and joy, still would I seek

Another victory with a like reverse;

Because the good of victory does not die,

As dies the failure's curse,

And what we have to gain

Is, not one battle, but a weary life's campaign.

Yet meaner lot being sent

Should more than me content;

Yea, if I lie

Among vile shards, though born for silver wings,

In the strong flight and feathers gold

Of whatsoever heavenward mounts and sings

I must by admiration so comply

That there I should my own delight behold.

Yea, though I sin each day times seven,

And dare not lift the fearfullest eyes to Heaven,

Thanks must I give

Because that seven times are not eight or nine,

And that my darkness is all mine,

And that I live

Within this oak-shade one more minute even,

Hearing the winds their Maker magnify.