Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 2.djvu/98

90 It is his darling passion to approve;

More brave for this, that he hath much to love:

'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,

Or left unthought-of in obscurity,—

Who, with a toward or untoward lot,

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,

Plays, in the many games of life, that one

Where what he most doth value must be won:

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,

Nor thought of tender happiness betray;

Who, not content that former worth stand fast,

Looks forward, persevering to the last,

From well to better, daily self-surpast:

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,

Or He must go to dust without his fame,

And leave a dead unprofitable name,

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:

This is the happy Warrior; this is He

Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.