ormented stage
The noble war of mankind rage,
What if His vivifying eye,
O monks, should pass your corner by?
For still the Lord is Lord of might;
In deeds, in deeds, He takes delight;
The plough, the spear, the laden barks,
The field, the founded city, marks;
He marks the smiler of the streets,
The singer upon garden seats;
He sees the climber in the rocks;
To Him, the shepherd folds his flocks;
For those He loves that underprop
With daily virtues Heaven's top,
And bear the falling sky with ease,
Unfrowning Caryatides.
Those He approves that ply the trade,
That rock the child, that wed the maid,
That with weak virtues, weaker hands,
Sow gladness on the peopled lands,
And still with laughter, song, and shout
Spin the great wheel of earth about.

But ye?--O ye who linger still
Here in your fortress on the hill,
With placid face, with tranquil breath,
The unsought volunteers of death,
Our cheerful General on high
With careless looks may pass you by!'

And the fact of death, which has damped and darkened the writings of so
many minor poets, does not cast a pallor on his conviction. Life is of
value only because it can be spent, or given; and the love of God coveted
the position, and assumed mortality. If a man treasure and hug his life,
one thing only is certain, that he will be robbed some day, and cut the
pitiable and futile figure of one who has been saving candle-ends in a
house that is on fire. Better than this to have a foolish spendthrift
blaze and the loving cup going round. Stevenson speaks almost with a
personal envy of the conduct of the four marines of the _Wager_. There
was no room for them in the boat, and they were left on a desert island
to a certain death. 'They were soldiers, they said, and knew well enough
it was their business to die; and as their comrades pulled away, they
stood upon the beach, gave three cheers, and cried, "God bless the King!"
Now, one or two of those who were in the boat escaped, against all
likelihood, to tell the story. That was a great thing for us'--even when
life is extorted it may be given nobly, with ceremony and courtesy. So
strong was Stevenson's admiration for heroic graces like these that in
the requiem that appears in his poems he speaks of an ordinary death as
of a hearty exploit, and draws his figures from lives of adventure and
toil:

'Under the wide and starry sk