He went singing down to death;
And the high Gods, who heard him,
Gave something of their breath
To the melodies that stirred him;
Lending some accents to his dying song
That only to abiding things belong.
His boyish heart had laughed
For joy of life's completeness—
Life had so brimmed the draught
It held for him with sweetness;
But when, unlooked for, came the suppliant cry
From tortured Lands, he put the full cup by.
Happy whose soul has wings
And has the strength to spread them!
Happy whose heart still brings
Its dreams where truth first led them!
Though he give all, his fellow men to save,
He has a tryst with Life, beyond the grave!
Blithely he took the path
Appointed him by Duty,
Whose face, viewed nearer, hath
Such deeps undreamed of beauty,—
Love, hope, ambition—he put all aside,
And for the things that do not perish, died.
Soul, was it tragedy to fall like this?
Oh, lovely, lovely, lovely, courage is!
And death itself may be most sweet,
Though the lips thirst, and empty be the cup,
If won in climbing—climbing up—and up,
To heights where vision and fulfilment meet:
If won at last, by deeds that glorify
Our lowly dust, where 'neath an alien sky,
Their service unforgot,
They sleep who, loving greatly, faltered not,—
The happy brave, who never knew defeat!