Action, that staggers me. For I had hoped, ’Midst weakness, indolence, frivolity, Irresolution, still had hoped: and this Seems sacrificing hope. Better to wait: The wise men wait; it is the foolish haste, And ere the scenes are in the slides would play, And while the instruments are tuning, dance. I see Napoleon on the heights intent To arrest that one brief unit of loose time Which hands high Victory’s thread; his marshals fret, His soldiers clamour low: the very guns Seem going off of themselves; the cannon strain Like hell-dogs in the leash. But he, he waits; And lesser chances and inferior hopes Meantime go pouring past. Men gnash their teeth; The very faithful have begun to doubt; But they molest not the calm eye that seeks ’Midst all this huddling silver little worth The one thin piece that comes, pure gold; he waits. O me, when the great deed e’en now has broke Like a man’s hand the horizon’s level line, So soon to fill the zenith with rich clouds; Oh, in this narrow interspace, this marge, This list and selvage of a glorious time, To despair of the great and sell unto the mean! O thou of little faith, what hast thou done? Yet if the occasion coming should find us Undexterous, incapable? In light things Prove thou the arms thou long’st to glorify, Nor fear to work up from the lowest ranks Whence come great Nature’s Captains. And high deeds Haunt not the fringy edges of the fight, But the pell-mell of men. Oh, what and if E’en now by lingering here I let them slip, Like an unpractised spyer through a glass, Still pointing to the blank, too high! And yet, In dead details to smother vital ends Which would give life to them; in the deft trick Of prentice-handling to forget great art, To base mechanical adroitness yield The Inspiration and the Hope a slave! Oh, and to blast that Innocence which, though Here it may seem a dull unopening bud, May yet bloom freely in celestial clime! Were it not better done, then, to keep off And see, not share, the strife; stand out the waltz Which fools whirl dizzy in? Is it possible? Contamination taints the idler first; And without base compliance, e’en that same Which buys bold hearts free course, Earth lends not these Their pent and miserable standing-room. Life loves no lookers-on at his great game, And with boy’s malice still delights to turn The tide of sport upon the sitters-by, And set observers scampering with their notes. Oh, it is great to do and know not what, Nor let it e’er be known. The dashing stream Stays not to pick his steps among the rocks, Or let his water-breaks be chronicled. And though the hunter looks before he leap, ’Tis instinct rather than a shaped-out thought That lifts him his bold way. Then, instinct, hail! And farewell hesitation. If I stay, I am not innocent; nor if I go— E’en should I fall—beyond redemption lost.