lured to run in a stream:  He would bend tough oak, he would stiffen the reed, point Reason to swallow the passions, Bid Britons awake two steps to take where one is a trouble extreme!

Not the less is he nerved with the Labourer’s resolute hope:  that by him shall be written, To honour his race, this deed of grace, for the weak from the strong made just:  That her sons over seas in a rally of praise may behold a thrice vitalised Britain, Ashine with the light of the doing of right:  at the gates of the Future in trust.

     Foresight and patience

     Sprung of the father blood, the mother brain,
     Are they who point our pathway and sustain. 
     They rarely meet; one soars, one walks retired. 
     When they do meet, it is our earth inspired.

     To see Life’s formless offspring and subdue
     Desire of times unripe, we have these two,
     Whose union is right reason:  join they hands,
     The world shall know itself and where it stands;
     What cowering angel and what upright beast
     Make man, behold, nor count the low the least,
     Nor less the stars have round it than its flowers. 
     When these two meet, a point of time is ours.

     As in a land of waterfalls, that flow
     Smooth for the leap on their great voice below,
     Some eddies near the brink borne swift along
     Will capture hearing with the liquid song,
     So, while the headlong world’s imperious force
     Resounded under, heard I these discourse.

     First words, where down my woodland walk she led,
     To her blind sister Patience, Foresight said: 

     — Your faith in me appals, to shake my own,
     When still I find you in this mire alone.

     — The few steps taken at a funeral pace
     By men had slain me but for those you trace.

     — Look I once back, a broken pinion I: 
     Black as the rebel angels rained from sky!

     — Needs must you drink of me while here you live,
     And make me rich in feeling I can give.

— A brave To-be is dawn upon my brow:  Yet must I read my sister for the How.  My daisy better knows her God of beams Than doth an eagle that to mount him seems.  She hath the secret never fieriest reach Of wing shall master till men hear her teach.

— Liker the clod flaked by the driving plough, My semblance when I have you not as now.  The quiet creatures who escape mishap Bear likeness to pure growths of the green sap:  A picture of the settled peace desired By cowards shunning strife or strivers tired.  I listen at their breasts:  is there no jar Of wrestlings and of stranglings, dead they are, And such a picture as the piercing mind Ranks beneath vegetation.  Not resigned Are my true pupils while the world is brute.  What edict of the stronger keeps me mute, Stronger