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129

THE WORLD TO THE SOUL.

Soul! that may'st have been divine,
Now I claim and take thee mine;
Now thy own true bliss will be
In thy loyalty to me.
Though thou seemest without stain,
There is evil in thy grain;
Thou hast tasted of the fruit
Of which Knowledge is the root.
So I must not let thee rest,
Lull'd on Faith's maternal breast;
Faith and Fancy mar the plan
Of the making of a man.
So thy tender heart I bare
To Ambition's frosty air;
So I plunge thee deep in doubt,
That thou may'st grow hard and stout.
So I bid the eager Boy
Sense in every form enjoy;
Stinting not the moment's pleasure,
Save to gain some fuller measure.
130

Thou wilt lose at last the zest,
Thou wilt need some higher quest;
Then I bid thee rise a Man,
And I aid thee all I can.
Fix thee on some worthy aim,
Proving danger, fronting shame;
Knowing only friends or foes,
As they speed thee or oppose:
Trampling with thy rapid feet
Feelings fond and pleas discreet;
Only for excuses sue
In the great things thou canst do.
If what shone afar so grand,
Turn to nothing in thy hand,
On, again—the virtue lies
In the struggle, not the prize;
Only rest not: failure-curst
Turn to Pleasure at the worst;
That may calm thy conscience-cry—
Death may give thee peace, not I.
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