Duty

     Duty! high arbitress of the human soul!
     Her's is a stern dictation. No appeal
     Can change her fiat—every hope must kneel, 
And every passion bow, to her control ;
Pomp, Pride, and Affluence, and the schemes, that roll 
     Through the sick brain, of joy and future weal, 
     Ay, and the fondest sympathies we feel 
Must bend to her fixed purpose. Crucified 
     To every thought, that from her holy shrine 
Would stay the sacrifice of the true and tried—
     The acceptable offering of a soul divine.
     Then shall heaven's glory round our pathway shine, 
Brighter and brighter, to the perfect day, 
And joy be ours that fadeth not away.