TO need any more the skies or man to importune

For us departing to-day with spirits at peace.

Now that the inner warfares, that tire men, cease—

For us the chosen of God's lot, the spoilt darlings of Fortune.

Against the beasts in men let loose from their cages

We go forth with a lightened and proud heart.

We who are the men summoned to a high part.

To be known of the envious youth of unborn ages.

We have feared old Death, but now have we learned our error.

Seeing him there in the mire us so kindly await—

A comrade befitting the hour of a world's fate,

And we look him full in the eyes; we are rid of our

last terror.

True that Death is an ill, but the worse ills are many;

Shame and slow rotting, cold and greasy years.

Pride in dishonour—these things hold our fears;

We can play pitch and toss with our lives as a boy

with a penny.

We have spent ourselves to win us a lady's favour,

But now the spending is grown to a leaping fire.

And winning for ourselves seems but a strange desire;

Her eyes are remote as stars; her kisses have lost their savour.

We have put life away and spurn the ways of the living;

We have broken with the old selves who gathered and got.

And are free with the freedom of men who have not;

We partake the heroic fervours of giving and again giving.

Was it only for Death we were borne of our Mothers?

Only for Death created the dear love of our wives?

Only for Death and in vain we endeavoured our lives?

Yea, life was given to be given; March onward, my brothers!