William Wordsworth

The Happy Warrior

'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a nation's eye, Or left unthought of in obscurity, Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,-- Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won; Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former work stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast; Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth Forever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead, unprofitable name-- Finds comfort in himself and in his cause, And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy warrior; this is he That every man in arms should wish to be.