Flower o' the thorn :: :: University of Virginia Library

I STAND upon the summit, where the turning point of age is,
Youth many a mile behind me left, a faint and fading dream:
The sky serene above me smiles; the wind no longer rages;
Life level lies beneath my feet, unblurred by shade or gleam.

To-morrow I must gird me yet again for the ensuing
The path that darkles downward and the unreturning way:
But now I pause a moment from my stress for the reviewing
The people of my youth and those who fill their place to-day.

In what I see scant comfort is. The Past-time with the Present
When I compare, I'm woeful for the world that is to be.
What was, although its memories all may not be sweet and pleasant,
Both good and gracious shows by that which is to-day to me.

Back to my youth, my manhood, I look. My generation,
For all its faults, a manly was, a proud and generous race;
The time was true and trusty: but this our newborn nation
Is void of pride and purpose, hath neither strength nor grace.

We, at the least, still ready were to bear our birthright's burden,
To face the blasts of battle and the surges of the seas.

We might be heedless dreamers; but, whatever was our guerdon,
We sought for higher things from life than cheaply-gotten ease.

But you, my sons, that boast you you are worthy of our places,
You that the load must soon take up that's lapsing from our hand,
I'faith, my heart misgives me, when I scan your vacant faces,
Wherein but apathetic greed I see and cunning bland.

We, at the least, if rash and rough, had hands the sword for gripping:
That which our fathers won we kept and added thereunto:
But you, the reins of empire from your nerveless grasp are slipping:
Our England's glory, waxed with us, is like to wane with you.

How shall you fight the Future, that can but game and gabble
And sneer at all of worth that leaves your dull complacence cold?
I would not march through Cuckooland with such a thewless rabble.
Where is the man among you all? You are but babes grown old.

The jargon of the race, the ring, the gaming-house your speech is:
Bards, sages, seers, a language speak that hath no sense for you.
You're fed and fat with poison as the fungus on the beech is:
Good, for it's old, you've left and ill have taken, for it's new.

Your virtues are but cowardice: in fear your ease of losing,
You lounge through life with maxims of mean prudence on your lips.
We had more faith in Fate than you, were bolder in the choosing:
You drift like soulless shadows driven before the Furies' whips.

We, at the least, were fighters, though at windmills whiles we tilted;
Our backs we set against the wall and scorned from Fate to run:
But you, scant stomach for the fight you have; by Fortune jilted,
You haste to sell yourselves for slaves, before the battle's done.

We, lovers in our day we were (and love's a thing you know not),
Were quick to risk the cast and count the world for love well lost:
But you, you love your ease o'ermuch; the dice with Fate you throw not:
None ever loved who paused, as you, you pause, to count the cost.

We counted honest work no curse, but faced hard fortune cheerly:
You have no heart for toil, except it be at idle play:

We loved the chase and prized the gain the more 'twas gotten dearly;
But you, roast larks into your mouths must, dropping, “Eat me!” say.

We, many a foolish thing, no doubt, we did, at wise ones aiming:
You, if you err not, 'tis because you venture not at all.
Who nothing doth, occasion scant there is his acts for blaming:
The churl who grovels on the ground, forsooth, need fear no fall.

We, at the least, high thoughts we thought and went high quests ensuing.
You, that no thoughts have of your own, you steal those of our time;
Nor even fairly copy them, but parody, undoing,
As snails and slugs fair fruits and flowers disfeature with their slime.

You grovel in your gutters of corruption nor misdoubt you
Of aught that's worth but feeding on Life's fat and on its sweet.
You care not though the darkness grow and gather all about you,
Provided but your beds be soft and bellies full of meat.

You're blind and deaf to Nature: all the carol of Creation,
All Life's rapture of rejoicing for the Springtime leaves you cold.
You can pass a field of cowslips by without intoxication:
'Tis we that are the young, my sons: 'tis you that are the old.

You have never learned from sorrow or from Pain, the soul's physician;
You walk the world like cripples from the cradle to the tomb.
You will perish, without living, of waste heart and inanition,
As dotards do, unwotting of Life's glory and its gloom.

Too often after shadows, hope-deluded, we, we followed;
The arrows of our purpose swerved too often from the mark;
Our venturous feet not seldom in the bogs of error wallowed;
But at least 'twas light we aimed at, in our questing, and not dark.

But you, the hero-deeds of old, the tales of bygone glories,
No ardour in your hearts excite; you are too worldly-wise:
The dreams of seers and bards for you are only children's stories:
You would scorn to risk your comfort for the conquest of the skies.

Where are the golden hopes that made our boyhood bright as morning?
Where are the rainbow-coloured dreams we followed, nothing loath?
You know them not: all visions fair, all high emprises scorning,
You dream of nought but wealth unearned and fatly-dowered sloth.

Where are the mighty painters all, the seers our lives that lighted?
Where are the makers of winged words, the bards for us that sang?

Where are the sayers, doers now, the world-all's wrongs that righted?
You do but fumble at the strings so sweet for us that rang.

We may have youthful errors made, in riper years repented.
Where is the lad whose ardent feet have strayed not now and then?
Who ever yet rejoiced but he in latter age lamented?
But you, you never have been young and never will be men.

We that have sinned and suffered, in the logbooks of our living
Are things that call for pardon, things omitted and misdone.
But you, who have not lived at all, what need you of forgiving?
Who cares to call a reckoning with the slow-worm in the sun?

We, if of somewhat of our dreams we failed, yet unforgotten
Will be, whilst England dureth, what we ventured for her sake:
But you, who never venture, who, before you're ripe, are rotten,
You will leave no more remembrance than the raindrops on the lake.

The fire of youth within our veins, although our heads nigh white are,
Yet runs; but you, your mother's milk scarce dry upon the tongue,
As cold of heart and dark of wit as any Winter's night are:
'Tis you that are the old, my sons; 'tis we that are the young.

Well, fare ye well! I bear you no ill-will, though little pleasant
You make life with your mumming. Are you worthy hate or scorn?
For me you are but puppets in the peepshow of the Present,
But sorry dreams foredoomed to fade and melt before the morn.

“They (the mean-minded) are arrogant in prosperity: but no sooner does the least reverse befall them than they hasten to sell themselves for slaves.” The Kural of Tiruvallouver (Tamil.)