Classic Poem

I HAVE done at length with dreaming;
Henceforth, O thou soul of mine,
Thou must take up sword and buckler,
Waging warfare most divine.

Life is struggle, combat, victory!
Wherefore have I slumbered on
With my forces all unmarshalled,
With my weapons all undrawn?

Oh, how many a glorious record
Had the angels of me kept
Had I done instead of doubted,
Had I warred instead of wept!

But begone, regret, bewailing!
Ye but weaken, like the rest;
I have tried the trusty weapons
Rusting erst within my breast,

I have wakened to my duty,
To a knowledge large and deep
That I recked not of aforetime,
In my long, inglorious sleep.

In this subtle sense of being
Newly stirred in every vein,
I can feel a throb electric,—
Pleasure half allied to pain.

'T is so sweet and yet so awful,
So bewildering, yet brave,
To be king in every conflict
Where before I crouched a slave!

'T is so glorious to be conscious
Of a growing power within
Stronger than the rallying forces
Of a charged and marshalled sin!

Never in those old romances
Felt I half the thrill of life
That I feel within me stirring,
Standing in this place of strife.

Oh, those olden days of dalliance
When I wantoned with my fate!
When I trifled with a knowledge
That had well nigh come too late!

Yet, my soul, look not behind thee;
Thou hast work to do at last:
Let the brave deeds of the present
Overarch the crumbled past.

Build thy great aims high and higher;
Build them on the conquered sod
Where thy weakness first fell bleeding,
And thy first prayer rose to God.