Tell me not in mournful numbers, “Life is but an empty dream!” For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real, life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; “Dust thou art, to dust returnest,” Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world’s broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no future, howe’er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present, Heart within and God o’er head. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints, that perhaps another Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait. Once more we observe how the musical flow of the language charms our ear, and how the poem makes us _feel_ that which it would teach. We miss the vibrating melody of words which we found in Tennyson and even in Shelley; and the rarely beautiful images of both the preceding poems are almost entirely absent. There is another element, however, which we could not perceive at all in those verses, and that is the element of nobility, of moral inspiration. The poem does not teach us any moral truth with which we were before unfamiliar, as a treatise on philosophy might; but it makes us _feel_ as nothing else ever has the reality of that which we know already. It actually breathes courage into us,--not the courage for heroic deeds in battle, but the heroism of living nobly the common life that is ours. It is not fair to condemn this almost perfect poem, as some critics do, because it is lacking in the Beauty and fresh Truth that make the poems of other poets immortal; for in the whole range of poetic literature it will be difficult to find a more perfect example of nobility and heroic courage. It will be interesting now to turn to Browning’s _Rabbi Ben Ezra_ and find the philosophy, the Truth that corresponds to this Nobility. VI. Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth’s smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joy three parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! VII.