 | Poems Chiefly Lyric and Elegiac |  |
13
FAILURE.
Thus ends the battle. We, who have survived
And have not conquer'd, nor are overcome,
But stand unbroken, only longer-lived
Than those who fighting fell—we all go home,
Sad at the losing of a noble cause,
But not dejected, for we did not yield.
In leisurely retreat, without a pause,
And prompt for action, so we leave the field,
Marching right onward for a little space
To meet ere long the kind maternal grave
That clips us once in one long last embrace—
Victors and vanquish'd: and those many brave
Who scarce are either; who have miss'd renown,
But not the serious sense of duty done,
Which is far better. Who would have a crown
Unmix'd with thorns, he shall not stand alone
Supreme above himself and other men.
And have not conquer'd, nor are overcome,
But stand unbroken, only longer-lived
Than those who fighting fell—we all go home,
Sad at the losing of a noble cause,
But not dejected, for we did not yield.
In leisurely retreat, without a pause,
And prompt for action, so we leave the field,
Marching right onward for a little space
To meet ere long the kind maternal grave
That clips us once in one long last embrace—
Victors and vanquish'd: and those many brave
Who scarce are either; who have miss'd renown,
But not the serious sense of duty done,
14
Unmix'd with thorns, he shall not stand alone
Supreme above himself and other men.
We have no music; but we have our arms,
Whose dinted steel rings sharply now and then
Severe encouragement, that sternly warms
Our souls with glimpses of some brighter day
When we shall hear the trumpet-call once more,
And meet, and form, on fields that are not grey
With gloom, nor red with slaughter, as of yore,
But lovely with immortal asphodel.
Whose dinted steel rings sharply now and then
Severe encouragement, that sternly warms
Our souls with glimpses of some brighter day
When we shall hear the trumpet-call once more,
And meet, and form, on fields that are not grey
With gloom, nor red with slaughter, as of yore,
But lovely with immortal asphodel.
Not here, not now, that trumpet-call shall sound;
Still, the smooth meads where we have leave to dwell
Are vocal too, with birds that haunt the ground
Spite of our presence; and are sweet with flowers
That bear no taint of blood upon their leaves—
And yet they fade, as we do.
Still, the smooth meads where we have leave to dwell
Are vocal too, with birds that haunt the ground
Spite of our presence; and are sweet with flowers
That bear no taint of blood upon their leaves—
And yet they fade, as we do.
Parting hours
Come not too soon, for him who fails, who grieves
At others' failure; and we part, just here.
On this fair sward, we halt and we disband;
Each man, serenely and without a tear,
Without a murmur, grasps his fellow's hand
And turns away, unshrinking and unblamed.
Why not, since failure is the meed of most,
And Death the doom of all? We are not shamed;
And better is it, that we cannot boast,
Than to have wrong to boast of. We depart
Each to his lonely dwelling; and remain
Content, though joy should never stir the heart,
Nor hope revive, nor this dull sense of pain
Forget to throb. For now, our labours cease;
And we are blessed, if we only gain
A life of quiet in a land of peace.
Come not too soon, for him who fails, who grieves
At others' failure; and we part, just here.
On this fair sward, we halt and we disband;
Each man, serenely and without a tear,
15
And turns away, unshrinking and unblamed.
Why not, since failure is the meed of most,
And Death the doom of all? We are not shamed;
And better is it, that we cannot boast,
Than to have wrong to boast of. We depart
Each to his lonely dwelling; and remain
Content, though joy should never stir the heart,
Nor hope revive, nor this dull sense of pain
Forget to throb. For now, our labours cease;
And we are blessed, if we only gain
A life of quiet in a land of peace.
| Poems Chiefly Lyric and Elegiac | |