THE BRINK OF BATTLE
—Moonlight suddenly! And behold! above me
Shine the four stone Faces, white and stern,
From the dark wall: Molière, and Dante,
Æschylus and Shakespeare—souls that yearn
Still, perhaps, for love and light and knowledge,
Or, perhaps—who knows what they discern?
They lived once on earth, these men, with foreheads
Stamp’d by some high quest’s tremendous toil,
And wide eyes, intent to pierce the darkness
With an earnestness no fear could foil.
Ay, and, living, to what pain, what terror,
Paid their hearts the tribute of recoil?
Yet how fathomless, O God! the anguish
Needed to produce Thee souls so grand!
They accepted all; and from my pittance
Dare I shrink? No, never! from Thy hand,
See! I snatch my orders to Life’s battle,
Seize my chance to suffer and to stand!
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