English poem
A Charge
by Herbert Trench (1865–1923)
If thou hast squander’d years to grave a gem Commission’d by thy absent Lord, and while ’Tis incomplete, Others would bribe thy needy skill to them— Dismiss them to the street!
Shouldst thou at last discover Beauty’s grove, At last be panting on the fragrant verge, But in the track, Drunk with divine possession, thou meet Love— Turn, at her bidding, back.
When round thy ship in tempest Hell appears, And every spectre mutters up more dire To snatch control And loose to madness thy deep-kennell’d Fears— Then, to the helm, O Soul!
Last; if upon the cold green-mantling sea Thou cling, alone with Truth, to the last spar, Both castaway And one must perish—let it not be he Whom thou art sworn to obey!