 | Poems |  |
THOUGHTS AND FANCIES.
Tell me, whirling autumn leaf,
Lend'st thou not new tears to grief?
Thoughtful sermons may not sorrow,
From thy fall, for mortals borrow,
Homilies that tell how near
Life and death are dwelling here?
“Mortal, from our fall shall spring
Newer, fairer blossoming.”
Lend'st thou not new tears to grief?
Thoughtful sermons may not sorrow,
From thy fall, for mortals borrow,
Homilies that tell how near
Life and death are dwelling here?
“Mortal, from our fall shall spring
Newer, fairer blossoming.”
What is glory! what is fame!
Though it ring through coming years!
Heed not if the future hears
Far-off races hymn thy name;
Act the right, unheeding whether
Coming tongues thy deeds shall tell;
Act the right, though men together
Bid thy name and curses dwell,
And the future know thee not;
Trust thou that when thou rt forgot,
Though thy name be hid in night,
Still thy deeds shall live in light;
Live, or known, or not, the same;
What is glory! what is fame!
Though it ring through coming years!
Heed not if the future hears
Far-off races hymn thy name;
Act the right, unheeding whether
Coming tongues thy deeds shall tell;
Act the right, though men together
Bid thy name and curses dwell,
And the future know thee not;
Trust thou that when thou rt forgot,
Though thy name be hid in night,
Still thy deeds shall live in light;
Live, or known, or not, the same;
What is glory! what is fame!
482
Prithee, what is life to thee,
Man of marts alone and trade?
Dost thou think that thou wert made
Only such a drudge to be?
Dost thou think the might of thought,
High imagination's fire,
Feeling's powers were meant for nought
But to win thy worthless hire?
Trust me, thee, the truly wise,
Whom thou scornest, may despise;
May, unsighing, live without
All the winnings of thy drudging;
Sparing not a wish to grudging
All thou wastest life about;
Poor, thy very scorn may be,
And yet well look down on thee.
Man of marts alone and trade?
Dost thou think that thou wert made
Only such a drudge to be?
Dost thou think the might of thought,
High imagination's fire,
Feeling's powers were meant for nought
But to win thy worthless hire?
Trust me, thee, the truly wise,
Whom thou scornest, may despise;
May, unsighing, live without
All the winnings of thy drudging;
Sparing not a wish to grudging
All thou wastest life about;
Poor, thy very scorn may be,
And yet well look down on thee.
Hate brings hate as love brings love.
Ponder, mortals, ponder this,
Nor, through passion, blindly miss
Happiness, all else above;
Hard it is the best to greet
With love, meeting no returning;
But with kindly love to meet
Hate that all affection's spurning,
Is all hard things else above.
Hate brings hate as love brings love.
Ponder, mortals, ponder this,
Nor, through passion, blindly miss
Happiness, all else above;
Hard it is the best to greet
With love, meeting no returning;
But with kindly love to meet
Hate that all affection's spurning,
Is all hard things else above.
Hate brings hate as love brings love.
Soul, what would'st thou? toilless leisure?
Ease untroubled? endless pleasure?
Wouldst thou not, I prithee, then
Throne thee in the praise of men?
Nay, to what still dost thou, higher,
Mounting soul of mine, aspire?
Thine what wouldst thou rather call?
Power, through work, to better all.
Ease untroubled? endless pleasure?
Wouldst thou not, I prithee, then
Throne thee in the praise of men?
Nay, to what still dost thou, higher,
Mounting soul of mine, aspire?
Thine what wouldst thou rather call?
Power, through work, to better all.
Prithee, what's thy boast of birth?
Pride of folly; wisdom's mirth;
That from which the wise may borrow
Smiles in care and jests in sorrow;
For our mocking is it meant,
Boaster, this thy long descent?
I and all from Adam came;
Prithee, didst thou not the same?
Pride of folly; wisdom's mirth;
That from which the wise may borrow
Smiles in care and jests in sorrow;
483
Boaster, this thy long descent?
I and all from Adam came;
Prithee, didst thou not the same?
| Poems | |