O had I died when o'er the sullen plain

The harsh light drifted and the roaring guns

Lifted their voices summoning amain

Youth from its joy in storms and flying suns

And happy comradeship of weathered men,

All had been as in purpose due and well,

Honourable my service had been then

And honoured the blank spot on which I fell.

But now—O heart!—how much dishonoured I,

And by my own hand too—twice bitter case—

My true love stained with secret infamy,

My treachery disguised by friendship's face,

And that bare passion bade me forth to die

Fouled to the instrument of my disgrace!

What has a man but honour? When 'tis gone

The man is gone: for all that in him blent

To strike a star for men to gaze upon

Becomes his quicker ruin's instrument.

For from that height to which with toil we climb,

From that we fall and to the further pit,

Who honour bore and lost. This is my crime

And this the daily punishment of it:—

To honour honour more than e'er I did

When I possessed it, to esteem the lot

Of those whose treasure from themselves lies hid

Or those who lose it and yet miss it not.

O God, now raise me to the thing forbid

Or from my eyes its pure light wholly blot!

Wherefore on God thou callest? 'Tis in vain:

Our hearts our fortunes are until we die,

And naught can change them or for loss or gain

Save Courage at least glance of Honour's eye.

For Honour, daughter of sound brain and blood,

Motions us ever though we may not heed;

She is imperative hunger for the good,

Good so instinctive that to gain we bleed.

Wherefore, dishonoured soul, part from thy love—

Fearfuller wrench than muscle torn from bone—

Or her soul too must perish here. Enough!

I cannot leave her. Then there is but one

Refuge for us now to make trial of,—

Refuge to which I cannot fare alone.

They burned too deep. Had they but taken that lightly

Which take they must, Love being absolute lord—

Parted by now they yet had rendered rightly

Memory each to each, love's last reward.

But of their love maybe a fiercer glow

They had who saved their honour at the last

By direst means. Whether it be or no,

In death their faces held a something fast.

Beneath the fall's white glare and drumming zest,

Where on black depths an hundred suns are burning,

Their bodies bound, like faggots, breast to breast

Rose for a peaceful space, lazily turning:

Their mutual smile acknowledged this was best.

Love had found Honour's way. O bitter learning!