Now the weak impulse and blind desire
Give way at last to the all-conquering will.
Love must now pause, and fancy cease, until
The soul has won that freedom born of fire.
Sing, then, no songs upon the sweet-voiced lyre:
But choose some nobler instrument, whos shrill,
Nerve-bracing notes my doubting heart shall fill
With a new courage that will never tire.
Sing me the dead men's glorious deeds again!
Tell how they suffered, died, but would not fail!
Stir me to action! Let me feel their pain,
Their strength, their mystery: — that at the tale
I rise with such clear purpose in my brain
That even Hell's own gates should not prevail.
Now that's motivation for ya.