The Hymn Of The Men That Fail

Lo, here we face the Weigher with our balance; we, who out of all our toil have won Only hope fore-spent and ideals vanished; only scars and sweat beneath the sun; All we dared, and spent our hearts in daring, grasping as a hand that grasps a star, Star-wise in its beauty and eluding lies beyond us still as dim and far.

And the soul that panoplied for battle once rode bravely forth in Fortune’s train; Wise now by futile march and foray, knows the high adventure was in vain: We have gained no laurels for our striving, naught of praise from them that sit to judge; Yet while there is room for new endeavor life is all too full for fret or grudge.

We have failed--and bitter was the failing; full the price we paid of faith and trust; Still our souls turn backward unavailing to the Gods thrown prostrate in the dust: For we could not keep the sight of childhood; and the Grail our hearts set out to seek-- It was but a vessel, empty, earthen--yet we had the joy of them that seek.

All the winds of earth have blown us backward; all her tides have turned our course awry; And though night be gemmed with starry splendor there is never lode star in our sky: Straight against the winds of Fate we venture; in the teeth of every tide we steer; High above the darkness that enfolds us burns our guiding hope forever clear.

We are them that fail; our hands are empty; hall and mart and temple know us not; Power is not to us, nor place uplifted; wit is not of us to plan and plot; But the wide and lonely places know us; hill and plain and wood and dark morrass; And the light of homes and smoke of cities rise behind our footsteps as we pass.

We have broke the way our brother followed; we have set the harvest to his hand; And the gold he heaps to fill his coffers we have winnowed out of barren sand: Earth yields her good to only stern compellers; ours the knotted grip that bent her will; Bound her to the serving of our kindred--and her captive-hate is on us still.

Homeless we have reared the homes of nations; mirthless we have laughed for others’ mirth; Striven that another might have honor, as the stars appointed at our birth; Ours the blood that reddened fields forgotten; ours the faith that sped a hope forlorn; Ours the eyes that doomed to watch through darkness, see the first, far promises of morn.

We are them that fail--O ye that reckon--holding high our shortage to be weighed; Grant ye that no other bore our burden; grant ye that the debt we made we paid: We have failed; but beaten and defeated, still we face whatever Life may send; Still we ask no odds of Fate or Fortune--we that go down fighting to the end.