Insatieties

There is no rest for us but right Endeavor 
     No Harp but gallant Hearts to valor strung; 
     No Song but love-words on the silvery tongue; 
There are no Thrones save footsteps in the scale 
Of upward climbing; and reward comes, never 
Apart from labor, for the exhaustless Giver
     Has piled no gainers, as if fruits could fail, 
     Nor lures the idle to some Happy Vale
Where all delights their unbought wealth deliver.,
But up the glowing steeps, from peak to peak, 
     Along the path of being, shines the prise 
Meet for the toil which earns it, eyes that peek, 
     And hands that struggle with a courage wise.


Eternal Want sets on the eternal tide 
     Of tireless toil, fed still with full success,
     To the strict measure both of deed and will;
But if no light of inward virtue guide
     Up the sharp crags of Life's laborious hill,
The same vast hunger gnaws unsatisfied,
     And its hot fever can no solace chill. 

Soaring or stooping to its more or, less,
The spirit yearns to two-fold statelessness
     The insatiety of Good and IL
     No depth of being is enough to fill
The happy soul who feels the upward stress 
Of pure aspiring on his pinions press, 
     But all is peace, and restful rapture still:
     Like a poised Eagle mounts the exulting will 
That needs must labor back to soar the less!
Eternal victory lends eternal force,
     And Want is wedded to a low Content, 
Grown with his vigor the immortal course 
     Steeper and stepper in its grand ascent;
Sublimer mountains bend their gloomier frown;
     From bolder cliffs are softer landscaper lent;
On every cross outgleams a nobler crown,
Which more inspires the soul to climb and pluck it down.
                        --------------0-----------------
No prise of Evil can fill the evil-doer,
     Itself is want, and only want can sow.
     A keener loss stings every triumph's brow
Success is ruin; Wealth makes doubly poor 
Walls out the future and o'erloads the Now 
     Taste cloys while yet the teeth of hunger grow.
He finds no center to make strength secure,
     No certain poise from which to hurl the blow,
No resting in the rigid right arm's play,
     Whose swing should be so sphere-like, and complete,
That the calm nerves could bear such strain alway, 
     Their vigor hightning with their action's heat! 
His struggles plunge him deeper from the day,
As of a strong ox in the miry clay.

[Final Stanza unreadable in current copy – to be repaired]