Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall Revised and Slightly Enlarged from "Verses Written in India" (Sixth Edition) |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
 |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
|
| I. |
| II. | II.—Aequam memento rebus in arduis— |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall |  |
143
II.—Aequam memento rebus in arduis—
Lib. II., Ode III.
Keep up your spirits in grief, my friend,
And an equal temper, if luck runs low:
When times grow better and fortunes mend,
Don't be too ready to chuckle and crow;
For whether you swelter the live-long day
Toiling under an Indian sun,
Or whether you lie amid English hay
Drinking the summer hours away—
What will it matter?—when life is done.
And an equal temper, if luck runs low:
When times grow better and fortunes mend,
Don't be too ready to chuckle and crow;
For whether you swelter the live-long day
Toiling under an Indian sun,
Or whether you lie amid English hay
Drinking the summer hours away—
What will it matter?—when life is done.
Where the spreading beech, and the poplar tall
Join their boughs o'er a shady nook,
Just as the slanting waterfall
Hurries the flow of the gliding brook,
Carry my wine to that cool green bower,
Light me a leaf of choice Manille,
Cull me the rose which blooms for an hour,
While lasts our money, and life's young flower,
While the Fates still pity and spare us still.
Join their boughs o'er a shady nook,
144
Hurries the flow of the gliding brook,
Carry my wine to that cool green bower,
Light me a leaf of choice Manille,
Cull me the rose which blooms for an hour,
While lasts our money, and life's young flower,
While the Fates still pity and spare us still.
Soon you must leave your favourite wold,
And the pleasant villa by Isis laved,
And the heir will reckon your piles of gold,
Hardly won, and thriftily saved.
Be you a wretched labouring kerne
Or a Baron rich with a blazoned coat,
Soon as your lot is drawn from the urn
Go you must—there is no return,
When you have stepped into Charon's boat
And the pleasant villa by Isis laved,
And the heir will reckon your piles of gold,
Hardly won, and thriftily saved.
Be you a wretched labouring kerne
Or a Baron rich with a blazoned coat,
Soon as your lot is drawn from the urn
Go you must—there is no return,
When you have stepped into Charon's boat
| Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall | |