The spirits of just men made perfect on high, The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne And gaze into the face that makes glorious their own, Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest sorrow, Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow, Are these worth nothing more than the hand they make weary, The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave dreary?
Hush! the sevenhold heavens to the voice of the Spirit Echo: He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit.
XLI.
The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog;
The loud fortress bark'd at her like a chained dog.
The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All without, War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and doubt;
All within, light, warmth, calm!
In the twilight, longwhile Eugene de Luvois with a deep, thoughtful smile Linger'd, looking, and listening, lone by the tent.
At last he withdrew, and night closed as he went.