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Best Famous Courage Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Courage poems. This is a select list of the best famous Courage poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Courage poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of courage poems.

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by Maya Angelou | |

Touched by An Angel

We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
Love arrives and in its train come ecstasies old memories of pleasure ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.
We are weaned from our timidity In the flush of love's light we dare be brave And suddenly we see that love costs all we are and will ever be.
Yet it is only love which sets us free.


by Ralph Waldo Emerson | |

Give All to Love

GIVE all to love; 
Obey thy heart; 
Friends kindred days  
Estate good fame  
Plans credit and the Muse¡ª 5 
Nothing refuse.
'Tis a brave master; Let it have scope: Follow it utterly Hope beyond hope: 10 High and more high It dives into noon With wing unspent Untold intent; But it is a god 15 Knows its own path And the outlets of the sky.
It was never for the mean; It requireth courage stout Souls above doubt 20 Valour unbending: Such 'twill reward;¡ª They shall return More than they were And ever ascending.
25 Leave all for love; Yet hear me yet One word more thy heart behoved One pulse more of firm endeavour¡ª Keep thee to-day 30 To-morrow for ever Free as an Arab Of thy beloved.
Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise 35 First vague shadow of surmise Flits across her bosom young Of a joy apart from thee Free be she fancy-free; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem 40 Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem.
Though thou loved her as thyself As a self of purer clay; Though her parting dims the day 45 Stealing grace from all alive; Heartily know When half-gods go The gods arrive.


by Galway Kinnell | |

from Flying Home

3 
As this plane dragged 
its track of used ozone half the world long 
thrusts some four hundred of us 
toward places where actual known people 
live and may wait, 
we diminish down in our seats, 
disappeared into novels of lives clearer than ours, 
and yet we do not forget for a moment 
the life down there, the doorway each will soon enter: 
where I will meet her again 
and know her again, 
dark radiance with, and then mostly without, the stars.
Very likely she has always understood what I have slowly learned, and which only now, after being away, almost as far away as one can get on this globe, almost as far as thoughts can carry - yet still in her presence, still surrounded not so much by reminders of her as by things she had already reminded me of, shadows of her cast forward and waiting - can I try to express: that love is hard, that while many good things are easy, true love is not, because love is first of all a power, its own power, which continually must make its way forward, from night into day, from transcending union always forward into difficult day.
And as the plane descends, it comes to me in the space where tears stream down across the stars, tears fallen on the actual earth where their shining is what we call spirit, that once the lover recognizes the other, knows for the first time what is most to be valued in another, from then on, love is very much like courage, perhaps it is courage, and even perhaps only courage.
Squashed out of old selves, smearing the darkness of expectation across experience, all of us little thinkers it brings home having similar thoughts of landing to the imponderable world, the transoceanic airliner, resting its huge weight down, comes in almost lightly, to where with sudden, tiny, white puffs and long, black, rubberish smears all its tires know the home ground.


More great poems below...

by Allen Ginsberg | |

A Supermarket in California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- 
man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees 
with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam- ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.
Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour.
Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.
) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage- teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?


by William Cullen Bryant | |

The Battle-Field

ONCE this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, 
And fiery hearts and arm¨¨d hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget 5 How gushed the life-blood of her brave¡ª Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm, and fresh, and still; Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 10 And talk of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine, are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry,¡ª 15 O, be it never heard again! Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.
20 A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof, 25 And blench not at thy chosen lot, The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown¡ªyet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; 30 For with thy side shall dwell, at last, The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 35 And dies among his worshippers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here.
40 Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.


by Ehsan Sehgal | |

Your words

"Be careful with your words and actions even in joking, that can hurt someone who loves you from the depth of the heart, when someone becomes silent, less active that means person is hurt, be polite, show excuse, give the courage so that person can back again as was, if you love too.
" Ehsan Sehgal


by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

A Passer-by

 Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, 
Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, 
That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, 
Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? 
Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, 
When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, 
Wilt thoù glìde on the blue Pacific, or rest 
In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling.
I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare: Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capp'd grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms, more fair Than thou, so upright, so stately and still thou standest.
And yet, O splendid ship, unhail'd and nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.
But for all I have given thee, beauty enough is thine, As thou, aslant with trim tackle and shrouding, From the proud nostril curve of a prow's line In the offing scatterest foam, thy white sails crowding.


by Stephen Vincent Benet | |

Music

 My friend went to the piano; spun the stool 
A little higher; left his pipe to cool; 
Picked up a fat green volume from the chest; 
And propped it open.
Whitely without rest, His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords, .
.
.
And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes, Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare, An army stormed the bastions of the air! Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch, Marching together as the lightnings march, And swift as storm-clouds.
Brazen helms and cars Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars Above the screaming horns.
In state they passed, Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast -- Rending the darkness like a leaping knife, The flame, the noble pageant of our life! The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure; Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns, And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs; That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain, From the loose net of words to deeds again And to all courage! Perilous and sharp The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp! .
.
.
And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men, "How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET LXXIX.

SONNET LXXIX.

L' aura mia sacra al mio stanco riposo.

HE TELLS HER IN SLEEP OF HIS SUFFERINGS, AND, OVERCOME BY HER SYMPATHY, AWAKES.

On my oft-troubled sleep my sacred air
So softly breathes, at last I courage take,
To tell her of my past and present ache,
Which never in her life my heart did dare.
I first that glance so full of love declare
Which served my lifelong torment to awake,
Next, how, content and wretched for her sake,
Love day by day my tost heart knew to tear.
She speaks not, but, with pity's dewy trace,
Intently looks on me, and gently sighs,
While pure and lustrous tears begem her face;
My spirit, which her sorrow fiercely tries,
So to behold her weep with anger burns,
And freed from slumber to itself returns.
Macgregor.


by Petrarch | |

SONNET XL.

SONNET XL.

Quella per cui con Sorga ho cangiat' Arno.

HE ATTEMPTS TO PAINT HER BEAUTIES, BUT NOT HER VIRTUES.

She, for whose sake fair Arno I resign,
And for free poverty court-affluence spurn,
Has known to sour the precious sweets to turn
On which I lived, for which I burn and pine.
Though since, the vain attempt has oft been mine
That future ages from my song should learn
Her heavenly beauties, and like me should burn,
My poor verse fails her sweet face to define.
The gifts, though all her own, which others share,
Which were but stars her bright sky scatter'd o'er,
Haply of these to sing e'en I might dare;
But when to the diviner part I soar,
[Pg 266]To the dull world a brief and brilliant light,
Courage and wit and art are baffled quite.
Macgregor.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

HUMAN FEELINGS.

 AH, ye gods! ye great immortals
In the spacious heavens above us!
Would ye on this earth but give us
Steadfast minds and dauntless courage
We, oh kindly ones, would leave you
All your spacious heavens above us!

 1815.
*


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

IN A WORD.

 THUS to be chain'd for ever, can I bear?

A very torment that, in truth, would be.
This very day my new resolve shall see.
-- I'll not go near the lately-worshipp'd Fair.
Yet what excuse, my heart, can I prepare In such a case, for not consulting thee? But courage! while our sorrows utter we In tones where love, grief, gladness have a share.
But see! the minstrel's bidding to obey, Its melody pours forth the sounding lyre, Yearning a sacrifice of love to bring.
Scarce wouldst thou think it--ready is the lay; Well, but what then? Methought in the first fire We to her presence flew, that lay to sing.
1807?8.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE SAME EXPANDED.

 IF thou wouldst live unruffled by care,
Let not the past torment thee e'er;
If any loss thou hast to rue,
Act as though thou wert born anew;
Inquire the meaning of each day,
What each day means itself will say;
In thine own actions take thy pleasure,
What others do, thou'lt duly treasure;
Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied,
And to God the future confide.
----- IF wealth is gone--then something is gone! Quick, make up thy mind, And fresh wealth find.
If honour is gone--then much is gone! Seek glory to find, And people then will alter their mind.
If courage is gone--then all is gone! 'Twere better that thou hadst never been born.
----- HE who with life makes sport, Can prosper never; Who rules himself in nought, Is a slave ever.
MAY each honest effort be Crown'd with lasting constancy.
----- EACH road to the proper end Runs straight on, without a bend.
1825.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE TREASURE-DIGGER

 ALL my weary days I pass'd

Sick at heart and poor in purse.
Poverty's the greatest curse, Riches are the highest good! And to end my woes at last, Treasure-seeking forth I sped.
"Thou shalt have my soul instead!" Thus I wrote, and with my blood.
Ring round ring I forthwith drew, Wondrous flames collected there, Herbs and bones in order fair, Till the charm had work'd aright.
Then, to learned precepts true, Dug to find some treasure old, In the place my art foretold Black and stormy was the night.
Coming o'er the distant plain, With the glimmer of a star, Soon I saw a light afar, As the hour of midnight knell'd.
Preparation was in vain.
Sudden all was lighted up With the lustre of a cup That a beauteous boy upheld.
Sweetly seem'd his eves to laugh Neath his flow'ry chaplet's load; With the drink that brightly glow'd, He the circle enter'd in.
And he kindly bade me quaff: Then methought "This child can ne'er, With his gift so bright and fair, To the arch-fiend be akin.
" "Pure life's courage drink!" cried he: "This advice to prize then learn,-- Never to this place return Trusting in thy spells absurd; Dig no longer fruitlessly.
Guests by night, and toil by day! Weeks laborious, feast-days gay! Be thy future magic-word! 1797.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE DESTRUCTION OF MAGDEBURG.

 [For a fine account of the fearful sack of Magdeburg, 
by Tilly, in the year 1613, see SCHILLER's History of the Thirty 
Years' War.
] OH, Magdeberg the town! Fair maids thy beauty crown, Thy charms fair maids and matrons crown; Oh, Magdeburg the town! Where all so blooming stands, Advance fierce Tilly's bands; O'er gardens and o'er well--till'd lands Advance fierce Tilly's bands.
Now Tilly's at the gate.
Our homes who'll liberate? Go, loved one, hasten to the gate, And dare the combat straight! There is no need as yet, However fierce his threat; Thy rosy cheeks I'll kiss, sweet pet! There is no need as yet.
My longing makes me pale.
Oh, what can wealth avail? E'en now thy father may be pale.
Thou mak'st my courage fail.
Oh, mother, give me bread! Is then my father dead? Oh, mother, one small crust of bread! Oh, what misfortune dread! Thy father, dead lies he, The trembling townsmen flee, Adown the street the blood runs free; Oh, whither shall we flee? The churches ruined lie, The houses burn on high, The roofs they smoke, the flames out fly, Into the street then hie! No safety there they meet! The soldiers fill the Street, With fire and sword the wreck complete: No safety there they meet! Down falls the houses' line, Where now is thine or mine? That bundle yonder is not thine, Thou flying maiden mine! The women sorrow sore.
The maidens far, far more.
The living are no virgins more; Thus Tilly's troops make war!


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE SEA-VOYAGE.

 MANY a day and night my bark stood ready laden;
Waiting fav'ring winds, I sat with true friends round me,
Pledging me to patience and to courage,
In the haven.
And they spoke thus with impatience twofold: "Gladly pray we for thy rapid passage, Gladly for thy happy voyage; fortune In the distant world is waiting for thee, In our arms thoult find thy prize, and love too, When returning.
" And when morning came, arose an uproar, And the sailors' joyous shouts awoke us; All was stirring, all was living, moving, Bent on sailing with the first kind zephyr.
And the sails soon in the breeze are swelling, And the sun with fiery love invites us; Fill'd the sails are, clouds on high are floating, On the shore each friend exulting raises Songs of hope, in giddy joy expecting Joy the voyage through, as on the morn of sailing, And the earliest starry nights so radiant.
But by God-sent changing winds ere long he's driven Sideways from the course he had intended, And he feigns as though he would surrender, While he gently striveth to outwit them, To his goal, e'en when thus press'd, still faithful.
But from out the damp grey distance rising, Softly now the storm proclaims its advent, Presseth down each bird upon the waters, Presseth down the throbbing hearts of mortals.
And it cometh.
At its stubborn fury, Wisely ev'ry sail the seaman striketh; With the anguish-laden ball are sporting Wind and water.
And on yonder shore are gather'd standing, Friends and lovers, trembling for the bold one: "Why, alas, remain'd he here not with us! Ah, the tempest! Cast away by fortune! Must the good one perish in this fashion? Might not he perchance.
.
.
.
Ye great immortals!" Yet he, like a man, stands by his rudder; With the bark are sporting wind and water, Wind and water sport not with his bosom: On the fierce deep looks he, as a master,-- In his gods, or shipwreck'd, or safe landed, Trusting ever.
1776.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

THE GARLANDS.

 KLOPSTOCK would lead us away from Pindus; no longer 
for laurel
May we be eager--the homely acorn alone must content us;
Yet he himself his more-than-epic crusade is conducting
High on Golgotha's summit, that foreign gods he may honour!
Yet, on what hill he prefers, let him gather the angels together,
Suffer deserted disciples to weep o'er the grave of the just one:
There where a hero and saint hath died, where a bard breath'd his 
numbers,
Both for our life and our death an ensample of courage resplendent
And of the loftiest human worth to bequeath,--ev'ry nation
There will joyously kneel in devotion ecstatic, revering
Thorn and laurel garland, and all its charms and its tortures.
1815.
*


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

COMFORT IN TEARS.

 How happens it that thou art sad,

While happy all appear?
Thine eye proclaims too well that thou

Hast wept full many a tear.
"If I have wept in solitude, None other shares my grief, And tears to me sweet balsam are, And give my heart relief.
" Thy happy friends invite thee now,-- Oh come, then, to our breast! And let the loss thou hast sustain'd Be there to us confess'd! "Ye shout, torment me, knowing not What 'tis afflicteth me; Ah no! I have sustained no loss, Whate'er may wanting be.
" If so it is, arise in haste! Thou'rt young and full of life.
At years like thine, man's blest with strength.
And courage for the strife.
"Ah no! in vain 'twould be to strive, The thing I seek is far; It dwells as high, it gleams as fair As yonder glitt'ring star.
" The stars we never long to clasp, We revel in their light, And with enchantment upward gaze, Each clear and radiant night.
"And I with rapture upward gaze, On many a blissful day; Then let me pass the night in tears, Till tears are wip'd away! 1803.
*


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

NEW LOVE NEW LIFE.

 [Written at the time of Goethe's connection 
with Lily.
] HEART! my heart! what means this feeling? What oppresseth thee so sore? What strange life is o'er me stealing! I acknowledge thee no more.
Fled is all that gave thee gladness, Fled the cause of all thy sadness, Fled thy peace, thine industry-- Ah, why suffer it to be? Say, do beauty's graces youthful, Does this form so fair and bright, Does this gaze, so kind, so truthful, Chain thee with unceasing might? Would I tear me from her boldly, Courage take, and fly her coldly, Back to her.
I'm forthwith led By the path I seek to tread.
By a thread I ne'er can sever, For 'tis 'twined with magic skill, Doth the cruel maid for ever Hold me fast against my will.
While those magic chains confine me, To her will I must resign me.
Ah, the change in truth is great! Love! kind love! release me straight! 1775.


by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |

COURAGE.

 CARELESSLY over the plain away,
Where by the boldest man no path
Cut before thee thou canst discern,
Make for thyself a path!

Silence, loved one, my heart!
Cracking, let it not break!
Breaking, break not with thee!

 1776.
*


by Walter de la Mare | |

How Sleep the Brave

 Nay, nay, sweet England, do not grieve! 
Not one of these poor men who died 
But did within his soul believe 
That death for thee was glorified.
Ever they watched it hovering near That mystery 'yond thought to plumb, Perchance sometimes in loathèd fear They heard cold Danger whisper, Come! -- Heard and obeyed.
O, if thou weep Such courage and honour, beauty, care, Be it for joy that those who sleep Only thy joy could share.


by Duncan Campbell Scott | |

Night Hymns on Lake Nipigon

 Here in the midnight, where the dark mainland and island
Shadows mingle in shadow deeper, profounder,
Sing we the hymns of the churches, while the dead water
Whispers before us.
Thunder is travelling slow on the path of the lightning; One after one the stars and the beaming planets Look serene in the lake from the edge of the storm-cloud, Then have they vanished.
While our canoe, that floats dumb in the bursting thunder, Gathers her voice in the quiet and thrills and whispers, Presses her prow in the star-gleam, and all her ripple Lapses in blackness.
Sing we the sacred ancient hymns of the churches, Chanted first in old-world nooks of the desert, While in the wild, pellucid Nipigon reaches Hunted the savage.
Now have the ages met in the Northern midnight, And on the lonely, loon-haunted Nipigon reaches Rises the hymn of triumph and courage and comfort, Adeste Fideles.
Tones that were fashioned when the faith brooded in darkness, Joined with sonorous vowels in the noble Latin, Now are married with the long-drawn Ojibwa, Uncouth and mournful.
Soft with the silver drip of the regular paddles Falling in rhythm, timed with the liquid, plangent Sounds from the blades where the whirlpools break and are carried Down into darkness; Each long cadence, flying like a dove from her shelter Deep in the shadow, wheels for a throbbing moment, Poises in utterance, returning in circles of silver To nest in the silence.
All wild nature stirs with the infinite, tender Plaint of a bygone age whose soul is eternal, Bound in the lonely phrases that thrill and falter Back into quiet.
Back they falter as the deep storm overtakes them, Whelms them in splendid hollows of booming thunder, Wraps them in rain, that, sweeping, breaks and onrushes Ringing like cymbals.


by Louisa May Alcott | |

Transfiguration

 Mysterious death! who in a single hour 
Life's gold can so refine 
And by thy art divine 
Change mortal weakness to immortal power! 

Bending beneath the weight of eighty years 
Spent with the noble strife 
of a victorious life 
We watched her fading heavenward, through our tears.
But ere the sense of loss our hearts had wrung A miracle was wrought; And swift as happy thought She lived again -- brave, beautiful, and young.
Age, pain, and sorrow dropped the veils they wore And showed the tender eyes Of angels in disguise, Whose discipline so patiently she bore.
The past years brought their harvest rich and fair; While memory and love, Together, fondly wove A golden garland for the silver hair.
How could we mourn like those who are bereft, When every pang of grief found balm for its relief In counting up the treasures she had left?-- Faith that withstood the shocks of toil and time; Hope that defied despair; Patience that conquered care; And loyalty, whose courage was sublime; The great deep heart that was a home for all-- Just, eloquent, and strong In protest against wrong; Wide charity, that knew no sin, no fall; The spartan spirit that made life so grand, Mating poor daily needs With high, heroic deeds, That wrested happiness from Fate's hard hand.
We thought to weep, but sing for joy instead, Full of the grateful peace That follows her release; For nothing but the weary dust lies dead.
Oh, noble woman! never more a queen Than in the laying down Of sceptre and of crown To win a greater kingdom, yet unseen; Teaching us how to seek the highest goal, To earn the true success -- To live, to love, to bless -- And make death proud to take a royal soul.


by C S Lewis | |

Prelude to Space

 An Epithaliamium

So Man, grown vigorous now,
Holds himself ripe to breed,
Daily devises how
To ejaculate his seed
And boldly fertilize
The black womb of the unconsenting skies.
Some now alive expect (I am told) to see the large, Steel member grow erect, Turgid with the fierce charge Of our whole planet's skill, Courage, wealth, knowledge, concentrated will, Straining with lust to stamp Our likeness on the abyss- Bombs, gallows, Belsen camp, Pox, polio, Thais' kiss Or Judas, Moloch's fires And Torquemada's (sons resemble sires).
Shall we, when the grim shape Roars upward, dance and sing? Yes: if we honour rape, If we take pride to Ring So bountifully on space The sperm of our long woes, our large disgrace.


by Sir Henry Newbolt | |

Ionicus

 With failing feet and shoulders bowed 
Beneath the weight of happier days, 
He lagged among the heedless crowd, 
Or crept along suburban ways.
But still through all his heart was young, A courage, a pride, a rapture, sprung Of the strength and splendour of England's war.
From ill-requited toil he turned To ride with Picton and with Pack, Among his grammars inly burned To storm the Afghan mountain-track.
When midnight chimed, before Quebec He watched with Wolfe till he morning star; At noon he saw from Victory's deck The sweep and splendour of England's war.
Beyond the book his teaching sped, He left on whom he taught the trace Of kinship with the deathless dead, And faith in all the Island race.
He passed : his life a tangle seemed, His age from fame and power was far; But his heart was night to the end, and dreamed Of the sound and splendour of England's war.