by AE
This, of all fates, would be the saddest end;
That that heroic fever, with its cry
From Children unto Mother, " Here am I! "
Should lose the very faith it would defend;
That the high soul through passion should descend
To work the evil it had willed must die.
If it won so, would that be victory,
That tragic close? Oh, hearken, foe or friend!
Love, the magician, and the wizard Hate,
Though one be like white fire and one dark flame,
Work the same miracle, and all are wrought
Into the image that they contemplate.
None ever hated in the world but came
To every baseness of the foe he fought.
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