MID faery voices, none Haunts my repose like one, Faintly, Delight begun, Clear at its best. Calm as a spirit tone From the Eternal Throne, Wafted to me alone, "On! from thy rest." When I expect it least -- When Beauty spreads her feast, Flaming West, flushing East Gilding Noon's blue: When Art has lured my soul By hope of Fame's bright scroll; When Toil has bid some goal Flash on my view: When Truth, with beckoning hand, Charms from soft level land, And climbing up, I stand On the pure Mount: When Love furls golden wings Nigh some sweet bower, and sings Of the bright, dreamy things No heart can count: When, led by Duty's gleam 'Mid gloom and thorns, I seem Graced by her crown supreme All to have won; When, as from stainless skies, Virtue bends favouring eyes, Holding a victor's prize For race well run, "On!" sings the seraph voice; "Ease is not Wisdom's choice; None who recline rejoice, None, low or high: On, to the best of earth! On, raised in loftier Birth, On, to undreamt of worth, On, on for aye!" |