Those eternal bowers

Man hath never trod,

Those unfading flowers

Round the Throne of GOD:

Who may hope to gain them

After weary fight?

Who at length attain them

Clad in robes of white?

He, who gladly barters

All on earthly ground;

He who, like the Martyrs,

Says, ‘I WILL be crowned:’

He, whose one oblation

Is a life of love;

Clinging to the nation

Of the Blest above.

Shame upon you, legions

Of the Heavenly King,

Denizens of regions

Past imagining!

What! with pipe and tabor

Fool away the light,

When He bids you labour,—

When He tells you,—‘Fight!’

While I do my duty,

Struggling through the tide,

Whisper Thou of beauty

On the other side!

Tell who will the story

Of our now distress:

Oh the future glory!

Oh the loveliness!