And lengthen out our dates
    With that clear fame whose memory sings 25
    In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates: 
    Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all! 
        Not such the trumpet-call
        Of thy diviner mood,
        That could thy sons entice 30
    From happy homes and toils, the fruitful nest
    Of those half-virtues which the world calls best,
        Into War’s tumult rude: 
        But rather far that stern device
    The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood 35
        In the dim; unventured wood,
        The VERITAS that lurks beneath
        The letter’s unprolific sheath,
      Life of whate’er makes life worth living,
    Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal food, 40
      One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving.

III

    Many loved Truth, and lavished life’s best oil
      Amid the dust of books to find her,
    Content at last, for guerdon of their toil,
    With the cast mantle she hath left behind her. 45
        Many in sad faith sought for her,
        Many with crossed hands sighed for her;
        But these, our brothers, fought for her,
        At life’s dear peril wrought for her,
        So loved her that they died for her, 50
        Tasting the raptured fleetness
        Of her divine completeness: 
          Their higher instinct knew
    Those love her best who to themselves are true,
    And what they dare to dream of, dare to do; 55
        They followed her and found her
        Where all may hope to find,
    Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,
    But beautiful, with danger’s sweetness round her. 
        Where faith made whole with deed 60
        Breathes its awakening breath
        Into the lifeless creed,
        They saw her plumed and mailed,
        With sweet, stern face unveiled,
    And all-repaying eyes, look proud on them in death. 65

IV

    Our slender life runs rippling by, and glides
      Into the silent hollow of the past;
        What Is there that abides
      To make the next age better for the last? 
        Is earth too poor to give us 70
      Something to live for here that shall outlive us,—­
        Some more substantial boon
    Than such as flows and ebbs with Fortune’s fickle moon? 
        The little that we see
        From doubt is never free; 75
        The little that we do
        Is but half-nobly true;
        With