Chapter XIII

Shall I play Roman, face and fight these ills,
Pretend that I _can_ fight and still may win?
A child his dozen mimic soldiers drills,
And six with six, the battle they begin.
Some victors, and some vanquished; some he slays--
But then the soldiers are mere toys of tin--
And carelessly upon the ground, he lays
Vanquished and victors on one common plane;
And takes some other toy and laughs and plays--
Yes, like that soldier, may I fight, and gain
Great victories. Oh, I may stare my Fate
Between the eyes, and drink whole draughts of pain;
With Stoic-strength, may struggle, and may hate;
But where's the payment that I vainly wait?