I cannot well be one of you: the leisure
You nobly use in lifting up the lowly,
Is all denied to me, and Time, my treasure,
Impress'd to ends unholy.

But though I daily mingle in life's struggle,
I am not wholly torn from rest or leaning,
And you shall hear the windings of a bugle,
Not wholly without meaning.

And from the spoils of trade, the shams of office,
Power's rank corruptions, fashion's vain abuses,
It may be I will pluck for you some trophies
To put to higher uses.

Not gems or gold — though well the world might spare them —
Nor plumes, nor aught that marks the lofty bearing;
But trophies I will bring, and you will wear them
When those are out of wearing.