And in the fog he was again marooned,
Felt the throb start again within the wound,
The mortal thrust that shattered his day-dream.
Then a cold gleam
Lit the high arch of intellectual days
Whence solace came, borne on the thin clear rays
Of truth discovered. The unfurrowed field
To him did yield
A harvest of essentials, winnowings
Which only went to plenish his wide store
And soon were dead-sea fruit, withered and hoar,
The phantom things
That unto reverie a tribute brought,
Yet like a miser's treasures were not wrought
Into a leaven for the heart and mind
Of poor and blind.
"Self, Self the centre and circumference!"
The judgment ran; he cursed the impotence
That like a palsy held him fast enthralled—
Then England called!
From every arch adown the cloistered years
The echo rang reverberate from the tiers
That seemed to rise exultant at the cry:
"England or die!"
He broke the barrier and found the road,
Imperious impulse spurred him like a goad,
A youth was at his side, but both were dumb,
They heard the drum!
It tuned the tread of his responsive feet,
Within his heart responsive echoes beat,
To left, to right, behind, before, the cry
"England or die!"
Rose on the night. They marched now four abreast,
A full score deep, and ever forward pressed;
The rain streamed from above, splashed from below,
But all aglow,
Linked by one purpose, forged by one intent,
The phalanx marched, their goal the battlement.