"For the cause that lacks assistance, the wrong that needs resistance, for the future in the distance, and the good that I can do"
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A four-beat pledge that sounds like a hymn but behaves like a manifesto, Banks stacks his clauses to make moral action feel less like a private virtue and more like a public duty. Each phrase turns on a paradox: the cause is defined by its lack of assistance, the wrong by its need for resistance. In other words, the point of intervention is precisely where comfort, prestige, and consensus are absent. It flatters no audience; it recruits one.
The craft is in the anaphora and the forward-leaning cadence. “For the…” repeats like a drumline, but the objects shift from immediate crisis (“the cause,” “the wrong”) to long-range obligation (“the future in the distance”) and finally to the intimate ledger of agency (“the good that I can do”). Banks compresses a whole ethics into a single motion: move from diagnosing injustice to imagining a horizon, then take responsibility for what is actually within reach. That last clause matters because it refuses the grandiosity of abstract righteousness. The moral life is scaled to the self without becoming self-centered.
Context sharpens the intent. Banks, a Victorian-era writer with ties to popular verse and reform-minded culture, is speaking from a Britain roiled by industrial inequality, labor agitation, and expanding campaigns for political and social rights. The line reads like a bridge between Christian moral rhetoric and emerging civic activism: compassion as discipline, resistance as respectability. Subtext: don’t wait for permission, don’t mistake popularity for justice, and don’t outsource your conscience to “history.” The future may be distant; the choice to act isn’t.
The craft is in the anaphora and the forward-leaning cadence. “For the…” repeats like a drumline, but the objects shift from immediate crisis (“the cause,” “the wrong”) to long-range obligation (“the future in the distance”) and finally to the intimate ledger of agency (“the good that I can do”). Banks compresses a whole ethics into a single motion: move from diagnosing injustice to imagining a horizon, then take responsibility for what is actually within reach. That last clause matters because it refuses the grandiosity of abstract righteousness. The moral life is scaled to the self without becoming self-centered.
Context sharpens the intent. Banks, a Victorian-era writer with ties to popular verse and reform-minded culture, is speaking from a Britain roiled by industrial inequality, labor agitation, and expanding campaigns for political and social rights. The line reads like a bridge between Christian moral rhetoric and emerging civic activism: compassion as discipline, resistance as respectability. Subtext: don’t wait for permission, don’t mistake popularity for justice, and don’t outsource your conscience to “history.” The future may be distant; the choice to act isn’t.
Quote Details
| Topic | Justice |
|---|---|
| Source | Excerpt from the poem "What I Can Do" by George Linnaeus Banks. |
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