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     Far from Death's idle gulf that for the many waits,
And lengthen out our dates
     With that clear fame whose memory sings
In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates:
     Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all!
Not such the trumpet-call
     Of thy diviner mood,
That could thy sons entice
     From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest
Of those half-virtues which the world calls best,
     Into War's tumult rude;
But rather far that stern device
     The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood
In the dim, unventured wood,
     The Veritas that lurks beneath
The letter's unprolific sheath,
     Life of whate'er makes life worth living,
Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food,
     One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving.


Many loved Truth, and lavished life's best oil
     Amid the dust of books to find her,
Content at last, for guerdon of their toil,
     With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.
Many in sad faith sought for her,
     Many with crossed hands sighed for her;
But these, our brothers, fought for her,
     At life's dear peril wrought for her,
So loved her that they died for her,
     Tasting the raptured fleetness
Of her divine completeness:
     Their higher instinct knew
Those love her best who to themselves are true,
     And what they dare to dream of dare to do;
They followed her and found her
     Where all may hope to find,
Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,
     But beautiful, with danger's sweetness round her;

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