PROSPICE. FEAR death?-to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go : For the journey is done and the summit attained, Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, I was ever a fighter, so The best and the last! -one fight more, I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall change, shall become first a peace, then a joy, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, |