Classic Poem

SUGGESTED BY AN EMBALMED INDIAN HEAD .

Not to the conflict, where those death wounds came
That still discolor thine undaunted brow,
Not to the wildwood, when thy soul of flame
Found vent alone in deeds — all nameless now,
Though startled fancy first by these is caught —
Not, not to these dost thou enchain my thought!

The tuft of honor, streaming there unshorn,
The separate gashes, every one in front,
Prove knightly crest was ne'er more bravely borne
By charging champion through the battle's brunt,
While those old scars, from forays long since past,
Bespeak the warrior's life from first to last.

Bespeak the man who acted out the whole —
The whole of all he knew of high and true,
All that was vision'd in his savage soul,
All that his barbarous powers on earth could do;
Bespeak the being perfect to the plan
Of Nature when she moulded such a man.

His simple law of duty and of right —
Oneness of soul in action, thought and feeling;
His mind, disturb'd by no conflicting light,
His narrow faith, so clear in each revealing;
His will untrammell'd to act out the part
So plainly graved on his untutor'd heart:

Envy I these? Would I for these forego
The broader scope of being that is mine?
His bond of sense with spirit once to know
Would I the strife for truth and good resign?
How can I — when, according to my light ,
My law, like his, is still to BRUNT THE FIGHT !