This charge to thee. Because I hold thee free
On stream or mount or at the temple's base,
As one not wavering to pride in place,
To brazen trumpet or to golden fee,
As one who in the pools of life can see
Still somewhat of old dignity and grace,
Still somewhat of the bright reflected face
Of cloud or sky or moon, this charge to thee:

I fear the pest of all-involving night,
I fear the fumes that, gathering round my head,
May choke to silence the one word of might
Life laid upon me: comrade, I am dead—
Thou livest; report me and my cause aright,
And lay for love a laurel on my bed.