Be thou the bow, and, like the arrow, I
Will cleave the golden apple of endeavour;
The errant knight of Truth, I'll slay each lie,
And Error's web with thought's keen sword-blade sever.
The earth is but a clod, until the sun
Draw beauty from its breast in tree and flower,
The years are but a waste of sands that run,
Till high achievement crown one noble hour.
The great word's rocky ribs are thinly veined
With gold, that none but strongest seekers' find,
And many a combat by the warrior gained
Before his brow with bays may be entwined.
Alone, my spirit faints upon the way,
Be thou its guide, be thou its saving stay.