We need not expect much of the man who, when defeated, gives way either
to despair or to a wild impulse for immediate revenge. But from the man
who stores up his strength quietly and bides his time for a new effort,
we may expect everything.
Now, think you, Life, I am defeated quite?
More than a single battle shall be mine
Before I yield the sword and give the sign
And turn, a crownless outcast, to the night.
Wounded, and yet unconquered in the fight,
I wait in silence till the day may shine
Once more upon my strength, and all the line
Of your defenses break before my might.
Mine be that warrior's blood who, stricken sore,
Lies in his quiet chamber till he hears
Afar the clash and clang of arms, and knows
The cause he lived for calls for him once more;
And straightway rises, whole and void of fears,
And armed, turns him singing to his foes.
_Theodosia Garrison._