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99. | [XCIX. O man of serviceable mind] |
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The book of the dead | ||
197
[XCIX. O man of serviceable mind]
O man of serviceable mind,
Whose memory can only strain
Back to the things wherein you find
A present hope of selfish gain!—
Whose memory can only strain
Back to the things wherein you find
A present hope of selfish gain!—
How luminous, how crammed with acts,
Are all your recollections then!
How glibly slide the lying facts
From rattling tongue and flowing pen!
Are all your recollections then!
How glibly slide the lying facts
From rattling tongue and flowing pen!
But where your history seems to frown,
And shake a finger at your purse,
How soon your eloquence is blown,
And stricken with a silent curse!
And shake a finger at your purse,
How soon your eloquence is blown,
And stricken with a silent curse!
Strange but convenient intellect!
That follows but the golden track;
I'll test its merit and defect;
I'll question it upon the rack.
That follows but the golden track;
I'll test its merit and defect;
I'll question it upon the rack.
198
Do you forget the youth whose look
Was humbled before fortune's ill,
Who bent above a musty book,
And drove with sighs a hireling quill?
Was humbled before fortune's ill,
Who bent above a musty book,
And drove with sighs a hireling quill?
Do you forget who, pace by pace,
Advanced him onward to his good,
Against their wills who knew him base,
Until a man with men he stood?
Advanced him onward to his good,
Against their wills who knew him base,
Until a man with men he stood?
Who nursed his fortune till it grew;
Whose counsel added gain to gain;
Ever beside him, strong and true,
With hand and heart and planning brain?
Whose counsel added gain to gain;
Ever beside him, strong and true,
With hand and heart and planning brain?
The man who raised you from the dirt,
By the mere greatness of his mind,
Failed but in this, and felt the hurt,—
He made you not what he designed.
By the mere greatness of his mind,
Failed but in this, and felt the hurt,—
He made you not what he designed.
He meant to make you something more
Than nature willed,—wise, true and bold;—
The vileness of your soul ran o'er,
And spoiled his purpose in the mould.
Than nature willed,—wise, true and bold;—
The vileness of your soul ran o'er,
And spoiled his purpose in the mould.
199
So Heaven, in primal Adam's birth,
Miscarried. The created still
Spurns the creator; and your earth
Was not exempt from mortal ill.
Miscarried. The created still
Spurns the creator; and your earth
Was not exempt from mortal ill.
It is not strange that you forget;
You are most mortal; and to ask
For gratitude or vain regret,
Were to assume God's future task.
You are most mortal; and to ask
For gratitude or vain regret,
Were to assume God's future task.
Or have you with those memories,
So aptly lost, forgotten, too,
The Dead who sleeps but to arise,
And hold a reckoning with you?
So aptly lost, forgotten, too,
The Dead who sleeps but to arise,
And hold a reckoning with you?
The book of the dead | ||