Poems (Robert Underwood Johnson)/Moods of the Soul
MOODS OF THE SOULI.—In Time of Victory
As soldiers after fight confess
The fear their valor would not own
When, ere the battle's thunder stress,
The silence made its mightier moan:
The fear their valor would not own
When, ere the battle's thunder stress,
The silence made its mightier moan:
Though now the victory be mine,
'T is of the conflict I must speak,
Still wondering how the Hand Divine
Confounds the mighty with the weak.
'T is of the conflict I must speak,
Still wondering how the Hand Divine
Confounds the mighty with the weak.
To-morrow I may flaunt the foe—
Not now; for in the echoing beat
Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know
The bitterness of near defeat.
Not now; for in the echoing beat
Of fleeing heart-throbs well I know
The bitterness of near defeat.
O friends! who see but steadfast deeds,
Have grace of pity with your praise.
Crown if you must, but crown with weeds,—
The conquered more deserve your bays.
Have grace of pity with your praise.
Crown if you must, but crown with weeds,—
The conquered more deserve your bays.
No, praise the dead!—the ancestral roll
That down their line new courage send,
For moments when against the soul
All hell and half of heaven contend.
That down their line new courage send,
For moments when against the soul
All hell and half of heaven contend.
II.—In Time of Defeat
Yes, here is undisguised defeat—
You say, "No further fight to lose."
With colors in the dust, 't is meet
That tears should flow and looks accuse.
You say, "No further fight to lose."
With colors in the dust, 't is meet
That tears should flow and looks accuse.
I echo every word of ruth
Or blame: yet have I lost the right
To praise with you the unfaltering Truth,
Whose power—save in me—has might?
Or blame: yet have I lost the right
To praise with you the unfaltering Truth,
Whose power—save in me—has might?
Another day, another man:
I am not now what I have been;
Each grain that through the hour-glass ran
Rescued the sinner from his sin.
I am not now what I have been;
Each grain that through the hour-glass ran
Rescued the sinner from his sin.
The Future is my constant friend;
Above all children born to her
Alike her rich affections bend—
She, the unchiding comforter.
Above all children born to her
Alike her rich affections bend—
She, the unchiding comforter.
Perhaps on her unsullied scroll
(Who knows?) there may be writ at last
A fairer record of the soul
For this dark blot upon the Past.
(Who knows?) there may be writ at last
A fairer record of the soul
For this dark blot upon the Past.