Darwin, Huxley, Spencer, Häckel, marshalling our stern array? We who raised the cry for Culture, Goethe’s spirit leading on, Marching gladly with our captains, Renan, Arnold, Emerson? We, we are not tinkers, tinkers of the kettle cracked and broke, Tailors squatted cross-legged, patching at the greasy worn-out cloak! We are those that faced mad Fortune, cried: “The Truth, and only she! Onward, upward! If we perish, we at least will perish free!” We have lost our souls to win them, in the house and in the street Falling stabbed and poisoned, making a victory of defeat. We have lost the happy present, we have paid death’s heavy debt, We have won, have won the Future, and its sons shall not forget! Enter, then, within your chamber in the rich and quiet light; Never think of us who struggle in the tempest and the night; Spread your nostrils to the incense, hearken to the murmured hymn Of the praising people, rising from the temple fair and dim. Ah, but we here in the tempest, we here struggling in the night, See the worshippers out-stealing; see the temple emptying quite; See the godhead turning ghostlike; see the pride of name and fame Paling slowly, sad and sickly, with forgetfulness and shame! . . . Darker, darker grows the night now, louder, louder cries the wind; I can hear the dash of breakers and the deep sea moves behind, I can see the ghostlike phalanx rushing on the crumbling shore, Slowly but surely shattering its rampart evermore. And my comrade’s voice is calling, and his solitary cry On the great dark swift air-currents like Fate’s summons sweepeth by. Farewell, then, whom once I loved so, whom a boy I thrilled to hear Urging courage and reliance, loathing acquiescent fear. I must leave you; I must wander to a strange and distant land, Facing all that Fate shall give me with her hard unequal hand— I once more anew must face them, toil and trouble and disease, But these a man may face and conquer, for there waits him death and peace And the freedom from dishonour and denial e’er confessed Of what he knows is truest, what most beautiful and best! O farewell, then! I must leave you. You have chosen. You are right. You have made the great refusal; you have shunned the wind and night. You have won your soul, and won it—No, not lost it, as they tell— Happy, blest of gods and monarchs, O a long, a long farewell! _Freshwater_, _Isle of Wight_. FAREWELL TO THE MARKET. “SUSANNAH AND MARY-JANE.” Two little darlings alone, Clinging hand in hand; Two little girls come out To see the wonderful land! Here round the flaring stalls They stand wide-eyed in the throng, While the great, the eloquent huckster Perorates loud and long. They watch those thrice-blessed mortals, The dirty guzzling boys, Who partake of dates, periwinkles, Ices and other joys.