Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Arthur Christopher Benson 18621925Realism
Benson-AA
’T is truth we live by; let her drench
The shuddering heart like potent wine;
No matter how she wreck or wrench
Or steep the virgin soul in tears;—
No matter; let her learn her own
Enormities, her vilest fears,
And creep through roaring drains of woe,
To soar at last, unstained, sublime,
Knowing the worst that man can know;
When loathing quickens pity’s eyes,
Still lean and beckon underground,
And tempt a struggling foot to rise.
Heroic stuff is hardly made;
But one, who dallies with dismay,
Admires your boldness, half-afraid.
Can rust and rot the bars of right,
Till weakness sets her trembling feet
Across the threshold of the night.
She breathes the enervating air,
And shuns the aspiring summits, cold
And silent, where the dawn is fair.
Too soft to burst the uncertain band,
Till chains of drear fatality
Arrest the feeble willing hand.
Be blind to that bewildering light!
When faith and virtue falter, truth
Is handmaid to the hags of night.