Fri, 23 Feb 2007 19:21:54 GMT

This is the day which down the void abysm
      At the Earth-born's spell yawns for Heaven's despotism,
        And Conquest is dragged captive through the deep;
      Love, from its awful throne of patient power
      In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour
        Of dread endurance, from the slippery, steep,
      And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs                   560
      And folds over the world its healing wings.

      Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance--
      These are the seals of that most firm assurance
        Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength;
      And if, with infirm hand, Eternity,
      Mother of many acts and hours, should free
        The serpent that would clasp her with his length,
      These are the spells by which to reassume
      An empire o'er the disentangled doom.

      To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite;                     570
      To forgive wrongs darker than death or night;
        To defy Power, which seems omnipotent;
      To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates
      From its own wreck the thing it contemplates;
        Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent;
      This, like thy glory, Titan, is to be
      Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free;
      This is alone Life; Joy, Empire, and Victory!

Pierre Menard