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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
WISDOM.
Thou hast no mitre, crown, or sword, or helm;
Temple, high place, or academic grove,
Or garden of delights, or wrangling mart.
An outcast child wert thou, but never nursed
By spotted pard. Thee mighty Nature fed
With hues and shapes of beauty; slanting showers
Perplexed thine infant eyes with their warm drops;
Tall trees thy slumbers charmed, and birds let fall
Sharp shades upon thy lids; but most of all
Serenity came to thee from the stars,
And echoing torrents harmonized thy voice.
Such was thy nurture. Then Experience stern
Added severer lessons. Toils heroic,
Manifold labours, conflict long and strange,
In darkness; Danger, Doubt, Adversity,
Yielded large increase to thy growing thoughts;
These, not the schools; a watchful eye, an ear
Open to that great voice whose clear behests
Stamp upon dutiful hearts, in humble forms,
Those great Ideas man was born to learn—
These, and thine own right hand, taught thee that lore
Terrible to the fools.
Temple, high place, or academic grove,
Or garden of delights, or wrangling mart.
An outcast child wert thou, but never nursed
By spotted pard. Thee mighty Nature fed
With hues and shapes of beauty; slanting showers
Perplexed thine infant eyes with their warm drops;
Tall trees thy slumbers charmed, and birds let fall
Sharp shades upon thy lids; but most of all
Serenity came to thee from the stars,
And echoing torrents harmonized thy voice.
Such was thy nurture. Then Experience stern
Added severer lessons. Toils heroic,
Manifold labours, conflict long and strange,
In darkness; Danger, Doubt, Adversity,
Yielded large increase to thy growing thoughts;
These, not the schools; a watchful eye, an ear
60
Stamp upon dutiful hearts, in humble forms,
Those great Ideas man was born to learn—
These, and thine own right hand, taught thee that lore
Terrible to the fools.
O eloquent Greece!
Here didst thou fail. In that great balance weighed
Whose equal scales are Virtue and true Wisdom.
Thou wert found wanting. Therefore all thine Arts
Were but as flowers that crown a victim's brow.
Here didst thou fail. In that great balance weighed
Whose equal scales are Virtue and true Wisdom.
Thou wert found wanting. Therefore all thine Arts
Were but as flowers that crown a victim's brow.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |