W. C. Scully - VIII lyrics

Be thou the bow, and, like the arrow, I Will cleave the golden apple of endeavour; The errant knight of Truth, I'll slay each lie, And Error's web with thought's keen sword-blade sever. The earth is but a clod, until the sun Draw beauty from its breast in tree and flower, The years are but a waste of sands that run, Till high achievement crown one noble hour. The great word's rocky ribs are thinly veined With gold, that none but strongest seekers' find, And many a combat by the warrior gained Before his brow with bays may be entwined. Alone, my spirit faints upon the way, Be thou its guide, be thou its saving stay.