Wearied already by the panting march,

Falling behind or loitering by the way,

To rest in idleness ‘mong the glowing flowers?

Nay, sisters mine, not slander's envious tongue,

Nor ridicule's cold sneer can lure you back.

Counting the cost before one stone was laid,

So was the work of Nationhood begun,

Not in light mood, with heedless, laughing guise,

And purpose fickle as the wanton wind.

So has the temple of our hopes progressed,

Despite defeat, and bitter loss and pain,

Leaving the spirit bankrupt in despair!

Oh never be it said that pleasure's gleam

Could blind your vision to that purer ray,

The quenchless light of sacrificing love—

It is no tournament you meet to grace,

Where rival tilters wrestle for your smiles,

No shower of roses from your white hands fall,

Crowning the victor in the stirring fray,

No prancing palfrey in rich cloth of gold,

Bears the fleet horseman through the crowded list

In mimic warfare, whilst the hurrying clash

Of battle music cleaves the perfumed air!

Not idle gazers of the painted show,

Spectators round the arena, dallying there

With jewelled fan, or garland of rich gems,

Raining soft glances and coquettish smiles.

It is no mocking tournay you must grace,

Strong men are battling for a Nation's life,

Tilting with error, wrestling for the truth,

Unhorsing rampant tyranny and fraud—

Their meed4—a summer flower, and witching smile,

Nay, rather valiant words, and loving deeds,

And gentlest courage—turning not aside

When the stern conflict wages hotter still!