 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
III
Strike then, and as thou strikest proclaimAn unimaginable fame
131
A Waterloo without a wound,
A Trafalgar with no triumphant sound.
A strain be sought
Suiting the wondrous lights
Of all the starry Arctic nights,
Simple as was their faith
Yet rising mountainously high
In its sublime simplicity.
In the default of war, their death
Was something that was higher,—
Strike, strike the golden lyre!
| The Finding of The Book and Other Poems | |