'THIS shall abide, and this, and this shall grow Upward, and touch perfection,' says the soul; She works her Dream on Life's perpetual scroll, She toils the withering heights the Great Men know, Upward and on till the rewarding glow Of Fame is almost hers -- but thunder wakes Out of the depth, an awful fiat breaks: 'Thus far, and no foot farther shall ye go!' 'Tis hers to fail, she weeps not -- be it so -- Failure is God's steel mould of character; Doth she then spurn her Ideal's face, and throw Down passion that inspired her in despair? Strong yet -- she works while others reach the goal, And least reward shall make the mightier soul! |