Classic Poem

I.

" Yet , onward still! " the spirit cries within,
'Tis I that must repay thee. Mortal fame,
If won, is but at best the hollow din,
The vulgar freedom with a mighty name;
Seek not this music — ask not this acclaim,
But in the strife find succor; — for the toil
Pursued for such false barter ends in shame,
As certainly as that which seeks but spoil!
Best recompense he finds, who, to his task
Brings a proud, patient spirit that will wait,
Nor for the guerdon stoop, nor vainly ask
Of fate or fortune, — but with right good-will,
Go, working on, and uncomplaining still,
Assured of fit reward or soon or late!

II.

Thousands must perish in this hopeless strife,
And other thousands, withering as they stand,
Grow old in the long conflict waged for life! —
The conflict not for homes, or gold, or land,
But the rare privilege of rule, — command
Over the meaner spirits that surround —
And worship while they mock — that starry band,
They call ambitious! Rivalry and Blame
Attend their footsteps, — envy, and the host
Of reptile passions that delight to wound
The spirits whom their hatred honor's most, —
And worse, Ingratitude! — that still from fame
Plucks its best laurel, as if loth to know
How much it owes and cannot help but owe.