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But some day the live coal behind the thought,

Whether from Baäl's stone obscene,
Or from the shrine serene

Of God's pure altar brought,
Bursts up in flame; the war of tongue and pen
Learns with what deadly purpose it was fraught,
And, helpless in the fiery passion caught,
Shakes all the pillared state with shock of men:
Some day the soft Ideal that we wooed
Confronts us fiercely, foe-beset, pursued,
And cries reproachful: “Was it, then, my praise,
And not myself was loved ? Prove now thy truth;
I claim of thee the promise of thy youth;
Give me thy life, or cower in empty phrase,
The victim of thy genius, not its mate!”

Life may be given in many ways,

And loyalty to Truth be sealed
As bravely in the closet as the field,

So bountiful is Fate;
But then to stand beside her,

When craven churls deride her,
To front a lie in arms and not to yield,

This shows, methinks, God's plan
And measure of a stalwart man,

Limbed like the old heroic breeds,
Who stand self-poised on manhood's solid earth,
Not forced to frame excuses for his birth,
Fed from within with all the strength he needs.

IV

THE HEROIC DEAD

HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE

BY WILLIAM COLLINS

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest
By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

TWO VETERANS 1

BY WALT WHITMAN

The last sunbeam Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath, On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking

Down a new-made double grave. By permission of the publisher, David McKay, Philadelphia.

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