And earth's green banner shakes.

For a Heracles in his fighting ire there is never the glory that

When ashen he lies and the poets arise to sing of the work he has

But to vision alive under shallows of sight, lo, the Labourer's

While stands he yet in his grime and sweat--to wrestle for fruits of

Can an enemy wither his cheer? Not you, ye fair yellow-flowering

Who join with your lords to jar the chords of a bosom heroic, and

'Tis the faltering friend, an inanimate land, may drag a great soul