The Poetical Works of George Barlow In Ten [Eleven] Volumes |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | VII. |
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THE BORDER-BATTLE
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| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
 | The Poetical Works of George Barlow |  |
329
THE BORDER-BATTLE
Yes, weary it is. The days are full of sighing.—
Close to our hands the remedy is lying,
The cure for sorrow and care.
Stretch out thine hand. The poison-draught is ready.
See how below that bridge the dark waves eddy!
Are not sleep's lips of all lips the most fair?—
Close to our hands the remedy is lying,
The cure for sorrow and care.
Stretch out thine hand. The poison-draught is ready.
See how below that bridge the dark waves eddy!
Are not sleep's lips of all lips the most fair?—
So pleads the inner voice with dangerous pleading.
And yet the soul is great which, rent and bleeding,
Lives on and on and on.
“Great souls are strong to live.” Great past our knowing
Is the brave soul who lives, when hope seems going
Where all youth's joys and rainbow-dreams have gone.
And yet the soul is great which, rent and bleeding,
Lives on and on and on.
“Great souls are strong to live.” Great past our knowing
Is the brave soul who lives, when hope seems going
Where all youth's joys and rainbow-dreams have gone.
When hopes and joys and friends have crossed the border,
Most great is he who, following out God's order,
This side the boundary stands
Safeguarding their retreat with sword undying
And mighty heart, and deathless self-relying
Strong fearless hands.
Most great is he who, following out God's order,
This side the boundary stands
330
And mighty heart, and deathless self-relying
Strong fearless hands.
As yet no right is ours to cross life's limit.
The stream runs there. We may not ford or swim it,
Nor follow our friends, nor cry.
Silent we stand, our faces lifeward turning:
We may not yet indulge the soul's deep yearning:
We must not die.
The stream runs there. We may not ford or swim it,
Nor follow our friends, nor cry.
Silent we stand, our faces lifeward turning:
We may not yet indulge the soul's deep yearning:
We must not die.
The great soul trusts. The great soul waits, in quiet,
Though round him rings the unceasing border-riot
Of the red steely storm.
He waits till through the dawn, or through the gloaming,
He hears the tramp of the relief-guard coming
And sees their Leader's form.
Though round him rings the unceasing border-riot
Of the red steely storm.
He waits till through the dawn, or through the gloaming,
He hears the tramp of the relief-guard coming
And sees their Leader's form.
| The Poetical Works of George Barlow | |