Not War, nor Hurrying Troops from Plain to Plain

Not war, nor hurrying troops from plain to plain,
Nor deed of high resolve, nor stern command,
Sing I; the brow that carries trace of pain
Long and enough the sons of song have scanned:
Nor lady's love in honeysuckle bower,
With helmet hanging by, in stolen ease:
Poets enough I deemed of heavenly power
Ere now had lavished upon themes like these.
My harp and I have sought a holier meed;
The fragments of God's image to restore,
The earnest longings of the soul to feed,
And balm into the spirit's wounds to pour.
One gentle voice hath bid our task God-speed:
And now we search the world to hear of more.