Normale Version: THE VICTOR.
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SOUL, rule thy self. On passion, deed, desire,
Lay thou the laws of thy deliberate will.
Stand at thy chosen post, faith's sentinel,
Though hell's lost legions ring thee round with fire.
Learn to endure. Dark vigil hours shall tire
Thy wakeful eyes ; regrets thy bosom thrill ;
Slow years thy loveless flower of youth may kill.
Yea, thou shalt yearn for lute and wanton lyre.
Yet is thy guerdon great : thine the reward
Of those elect who, scorning Circe's lure,
Grown early wise, make living right their lord.
Clothed with celestial steel, these walk secure ;
Masters, not slaves. Over their heads the pure
Heavens bow, and guardian seraphs wave God's sword.