"They are not fitted to survive,"
We say. "Why pain ourselves to feel
The battle-throes in which they strive?
Fate has decreed. Mistaken zeal
Would meddle where it cannot mend,
And lengthen woes it cannot cure;
A champion may be not a friend;
Enough for us that we endure
The heat and burden of the day,
In our own lives, in our own way."
There is a pang that strikes us through—
When strong great natures bend and break—
Or when the earnest and the true
Are martyrs for their conscience sake.
That gives a sense of wasteful loss,
From which we feel a sharp recoil,
A protest against crownless cross,
'Gainst hopes misplaced and fruitless toil;
A verdict, by our hearts, that we
Censure the ways of destiny.
Our protest gives the lonely trail,
Or spring that bears some wanderer's name,
The spell of an Arabian tale,
Linking it to heroic fame.
For dauntless daring led the way,
37
