Classic Poem

I said to her when she fled in amaze and breathless
before the array of battle — Why dost thou tremble?
Yea, if but a day of life thou shouldst beg with weeping
beyond what thy doom appoints, thou wouldst not gain it.
Be still then, and face the onset of death, high-hearted,
for none upon earth shall win to abide forever.
No raiment of praise the cloak of old age and weakness:
none such for the coward who bows like a reed in tempest.
The pathway of death is set for all men to travel:
the crier of death proclaims through the earth his empire.
Who dies not when young and sound dies old and weary,
cut off in his length of days from all love and kindness;
And what for a man is left of delight in living,
past use, flung away, a worthless and worn-out chattel?