Then there 's a monster, so fair at first,
Called Ease, or Comfort, or harmless Pleasure,—
Born of smooth Leisure,
On Luxury's lap delicious nurst,—
Who 'd buy your soul if you'd sell it, just
To catch one minute
With joyance in it,
Or ward off sorrow
Until tomorrow;
Trample him, trample him into dust.
Saint George and the Dragon! ah, my boy,
There are many old dragons left,
would-scourges,
And few Saint Georges—
There's much of labor and little of joy!
But on with you, on to the endless fight:
Your sword, firm buckle;
To no man truckle;
Wave your bold flag on,
And slay your dragon.
Saint George forever! God and the Right!
