  Now, youth, the hour of thy dread passion comes: Thy lovely things must all be laid away; And thou, as others, must face the riven day Unstirred by rattle of the rolling drums, Or bugles’ strident cry. When mere noise numbs The sense of being, the fear-sick soul doth sway, Remember thy great craft’s honour, that they may say Nothing in shame of poets. Then the crumbs Of praise the little versemen joyed to take Shall be forgotten: then they must know we are, For all our skill in words, equal in might And strong of mettle as those we honoured; make The name of poet terrible in just war, And like a crown of honour upon the fight. |
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