 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
Be humble.—Jones.
Triumph not, frail man; thou art
Too weak a thing to boast;
Thou hast a sad and foolish heart;
Misdeeds are all thou dost.
Thou seem'st most proud of thine offence;
Thou sinn'st e'en where thou want'st pretence.
Too weak a thing to boast;
Thou hast a sad and foolish heart;
Misdeeds are all thou dost.
Thou seem'st most proud of thine offence;
Thou sinn'st e'en where thou want'st pretence.
Triumph not, though nothing warns
Of vigor waning fast;
Remember roses fade, but thorns
Survive the wintry blast.
A pleasant morn, a sultry noon,
Foretell the tempest rising soon.
Of vigor waning fast;
Remember roses fade, but thorns
Survive the wintry blast.
A pleasant morn, a sultry noon,
Foretell the tempest rising soon.
Triumph not, though fortune sends
The riches of the mine;
If then thou countest many friends,
It is good luck of thine.
But triumph not: that gold may go;
And friends will fly in hour of wo.
The riches of the mine;
If then thou countest many friends,
It is good luck of thine.
But triumph not: that gold may go;
And friends will fly in hour of wo.
And thou may'st love a smooth, soft cheek,
And woo a tender eye:
But triumph not: a single week,
And cold those lips may lie,—
Or, worse, that trusted heart may rove,
And leave thee, for another love.
And woo a tender eye:
But triumph not: a single week,
And cold those lips may lie,—
Or, worse, that trusted heart may rove,
And leave thee, for another love.
But triumph, if thy soul feels firm
In faith, and leans on God;
If wo bids flourish love's warm germ,
And thou can'st kiss the rod;
Then triumph, man; for this alone
Is cause for an exulting tone.
In faith, and leans on God;
If wo bids flourish love's warm germ,
And thou can'st kiss the rod;
Then triumph, man; for this alone
Is cause for an exulting tone.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |