Thou art the Voice to kingly boys
  To lift them through the fight,
And Comfortress of Unsuccess,
  To give the Dead good-night.

A veil to draw 'twixt God His Law
  And Man's infirmity,
A shadow kind to dumb and blind
  The shambles where we die;
A rule to trick th' arithmetic
  Too base of leaguing odds—
The spur of trust, the curb of lust,
  Thou handmaid of the Gods!

O Charity, all patiently
  Abiding wrack and scaith!
O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats
  Yet drops no jot of faith!
Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
  To higher, lordlier show,
Who art in sooth that lovely Truth
  The careless angels know!

Thy face is far from this our war,
  Our call and counter-cry,
I may not find Thee quick and kind,
  Nor know Thee till I die.

Yet may I look with heart unshook
  On blow brought home or missed—
Yet may I hear with equal ear
  The clarions down the List;
Yet set my lance above mischance
  And ride the barriere—
Oh, hit or miss, how little 't is,
  My Lady is not there!