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That REASON, PASSION, answer one great aim ;
But make allowance for their doubting too ; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about don't deal in lies, Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise :
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim ; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same ; If you can bear to hear the truth
've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools :
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss ; If
heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them : Hold on!'
you can force
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch; If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you ;
If all men count with you, but none too much ; If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that 's in it, And (which is more) you 'll be a Man, my son !
DRAKE he's in his hammock an' a thousand mile
away, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?), Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancin' heel-an'-toe, An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.
Drake he was a Devon man, an' rüled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?), Rovin' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe. * Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder 's runnin' low ; If the Dons sight Devon, I 'll quit the port o' Heaven An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them
Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armada 's
come, (Capten, art tha sleepin' there below ?), Slung atween the round shot, listenin' for the drum,
An' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
Call him on the deep sea, call him up
the Sound, Call him when ye sail to meet the foe; Where the old trade 's plyin' an' the old flag flyin’ They shall find him ware an’ wakin', as they found him long ago!
and meet the war.
Though all we knew depart,
Once more we hear the word
Comfort, content, delight,
To face the naked days
Though all we made depart,
In strength lift up your hand.'
80 Death the Leveller THE glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things ; There is no armour against Fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings :
Sceptre and Crown
Must tumble down,
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still :
Early or late
They stoop to fate,
The garlands wither on your brow:
Then boast no more your mighty deeds!
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb :
Ozymandias I MET a traveller from an antique land Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . .. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, The hand that mock'd them, and the heart that fed : And on the pedestal these words appear :
My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.
EARTH, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood !