Soldier, go, but not to claim Mould'ring spoils of earth-born treasure; Not to build a vaunting name, Not to dwell in tents of pleasure: Dream not that the way is smooth, Hope not that the thorns are roses; Turn no wishful eye of youth, Where the sunny beam reposes, Thou hast sterner work to do Hosts to cut thy passage through; Close behind thee gulfs are burning – Forward, then there's no returning. Soldier, rest; – but not for thee Spreads the world her downy pillow; On the rock thy couch must be, While around thee chafes the billow: Thine must be a watchful sleep wearier than another's waking. Such a charge as thou must keep, Brooks no moment of forsaking: Sleep as on the battlefield, Girded – grasping sword and shield; Those thou canst not name nor number, Steal upon thy broken slumber.