Returning upon my poems， considering， lingering long，

    A Phantom¹ arose before me with distrustful aspect，

    Terrible in beauty， age， and power，

    The genius of poets of old lands，

    As to me directing like flame its eyes，

    With finger pointing to many immortal² songs，

    And menacing voice， What singest thou？ it said，

    Know'st thou not there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards³？

    And that is the theme of War， the fortune of battles，

    The making of perfect soldiers.

    Be it so， then I answer'd，

    I too haughty⁴ Shade also sing war， and a longer and greater one than any，

    Waged in my book with varying fortune， with flight， advance

    and retreat， victory deferr'd and wavering，

    （Yet methinks certain， or as good as certain， at the last，） the field the world，

    For life and death， for the Body and for the eternal Soul，

    Lo， I too am come， chanting the chant of battles，

    I above all promote brave soldiers.