TRENCH
Yes, let us own it in confession free,That when we girt ourselves to quell the wrong,We deemed it not so giant-like and strong,But it with our slight effort thought to seePushed from its base; yea, almost deemed that we,Champions of right, might be excused the priceOf pain, and loss, and large self-sacrifice,Set ever on high things by Heav’n’s decree.What if this work’s great hardness was concealedFrom us, until so far upon our wayThat no escape remained us, no retreat,—Lest, being at an earlier hour revealed,We might have shrunk too weakly from the heat,And shunned the burden of this fiery day?Richard Chenevix Trench.
Yes, let us own it in confession free,That when we girt ourselves to quell the wrong,We deemed it not so giant-like and strong,But it with our slight effort thought to seePushed from its base; yea, almost deemed that we,Champions of right, might be excused the priceOf pain, and loss, and large self-sacrifice,Set ever on high things by Heav’n’s decree.What if this work’s great hardness was concealedFrom us, until so far upon our wayThat no escape remained us, no retreat,—Lest, being at an earlier hour revealed,We might have shrunk too weakly from the heat,And shunned the burden of this fiery day?Richard Chenevix Trench.
Yes, let us own it in confession free,That when we girt ourselves to quell the wrong,We deemed it not so giant-like and strong,But it with our slight effort thought to seePushed from its base; yea, almost deemed that we,Champions of right, might be excused the priceOf pain, and loss, and large self-sacrifice,Set ever on high things by Heav’n’s decree.What if this work’s great hardness was concealedFrom us, until so far upon our wayThat no escape remained us, no retreat,—Lest, being at an earlier hour revealed,We might have shrunk too weakly from the heat,And shunned the burden of this fiery day?
Richard Chenevix Trench.
Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own,And, England, who shall be thy joy, thy pride?As thou art just, oh then not those aloneWho nobly conquering lived, or conquering died.Then also in thy roll of heroes write,For well they earned what best thou canst bestow,Who being girt and armèd for the fight,Yielded their arms, but to no mortal foe.Far off they pined on fever-stricken coast,Or sank in sudden arms of painful death;And faces which their eyes desired the most,They saw not, as they drew their parting breath.Sad doom, to know a mighty work in hand,Which shall from all the ages honour win;Upon the threshold of this work to stand,Arrested there, while others enter in.And this was theirs; they saw their fellows boundTo fields of fame which they might never share;And all the while within their own hearts foundA strength that was not less, to do and dare:But knew that never, never with their peers,They should salute some grand day’s glorious close,The shout of triumph ringing in their ears,The light of battle shining on their brows.Sad doom;—yet say not Heaven to them assignedA lot from all of glory quite estranged:Albeit the laurel which they hoped to bindAbout their brows for cypress wreath was changed.Heaven gave to them a glory stern, austere,A glory of all earthly glory shorn;With firm heart to accept fate’s gift severe,Bravely to bear the thing that must be borne;To see such visions fade and turn to nought,And in this saddest issue to consent;If only the great work were duly wrought,That others should accomplish it, content.Then as thou wouldst thyself continue great,Keep a true eye for what is great indeed;Nor know it only in its lofty stateAnd victor’s robes, but in its lowliest weed.And now, and when this dreadful work is done,England, be these too thy delight and pride;Wear them as near thy heart as any oneOf all who conquering lived, or conquering died.Richard Chenevix Trench.
Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own,And, England, who shall be thy joy, thy pride?As thou art just, oh then not those aloneWho nobly conquering lived, or conquering died.Then also in thy roll of heroes write,For well they earned what best thou canst bestow,Who being girt and armèd for the fight,Yielded their arms, but to no mortal foe.Far off they pined on fever-stricken coast,Or sank in sudden arms of painful death;And faces which their eyes desired the most,They saw not, as they drew their parting breath.Sad doom, to know a mighty work in hand,Which shall from all the ages honour win;Upon the threshold of this work to stand,Arrested there, while others enter in.And this was theirs; they saw their fellows boundTo fields of fame which they might never share;And all the while within their own hearts foundA strength that was not less, to do and dare:But knew that never, never with their peers,They should salute some grand day’s glorious close,The shout of triumph ringing in their ears,The light of battle shining on their brows.Sad doom;—yet say not Heaven to them assignedA lot from all of glory quite estranged:Albeit the laurel which they hoped to bindAbout their brows for cypress wreath was changed.Heaven gave to them a glory stern, austere,A glory of all earthly glory shorn;With firm heart to accept fate’s gift severe,Bravely to bear the thing that must be borne;To see such visions fade and turn to nought,And in this saddest issue to consent;If only the great work were duly wrought,That others should accomplish it, content.Then as thou wouldst thyself continue great,Keep a true eye for what is great indeed;Nor know it only in its lofty stateAnd victor’s robes, but in its lowliest weed.And now, and when this dreadful work is done,England, be these too thy delight and pride;Wear them as near thy heart as any oneOf all who conquering lived, or conquering died.Richard Chenevix Trench.
Whom for thy race of heroes wilt thou own,And, England, who shall be thy joy, thy pride?As thou art just, oh then not those aloneWho nobly conquering lived, or conquering died.
Then also in thy roll of heroes write,For well they earned what best thou canst bestow,Who being girt and armèd for the fight,Yielded their arms, but to no mortal foe.
Far off they pined on fever-stricken coast,Or sank in sudden arms of painful death;And faces which their eyes desired the most,They saw not, as they drew their parting breath.
Sad doom, to know a mighty work in hand,Which shall from all the ages honour win;Upon the threshold of this work to stand,Arrested there, while others enter in.
And this was theirs; they saw their fellows boundTo fields of fame which they might never share;And all the while within their own hearts foundA strength that was not less, to do and dare:
But knew that never, never with their peers,They should salute some grand day’s glorious close,The shout of triumph ringing in their ears,The light of battle shining on their brows.
Sad doom;—yet say not Heaven to them assignedA lot from all of glory quite estranged:Albeit the laurel which they hoped to bindAbout their brows for cypress wreath was changed.
Heaven gave to them a glory stern, austere,A glory of all earthly glory shorn;With firm heart to accept fate’s gift severe,Bravely to bear the thing that must be borne;
To see such visions fade and turn to nought,And in this saddest issue to consent;If only the great work were duly wrought,That others should accomplish it, content.
Then as thou wouldst thyself continue great,Keep a true eye for what is great indeed;Nor know it only in its lofty stateAnd victor’s robes, but in its lowliest weed.
And now, and when this dreadful work is done,England, be these too thy delight and pride;Wear them as near thy heart as any oneOf all who conquering lived, or conquering died.
Richard Chenevix Trench.