 | Words by the Wayside |  |
52
Aurea Ætas
O paradise of youth, the enchanted ring,
Round which we baffled outcasts idly rage,
Thrice happy folk who yet call Saturn king,
And still untarnished keep the golden age!
Round which we baffled outcasts idly rage,
Thrice happy folk who yet call Saturn king,
And still untarnished keep the golden age!
Fain would I loiter by the magic bound,
Though pass I may not, no nor tarry long,
So not too harshly in your ears may sound
The sigh-born numbers of an exile's song.
Though pass I may not, no nor tarry long,
So not too harshly in your ears may sound
The sigh-born numbers of an exile's song.
For you the sky-dome rears an ampler roof;
In you uncurdled by the frosts of fear
Hope springs, and ever spreads her watery woof,
A soul-reflecting current, swift and clear:
In you uncurdled by the frosts of fear
Hope springs, and ever spreads her watery woof,
A soul-reflecting current, swift and clear:
So clear and swift, the very sight has power
Sometimes within the breast to make us sigh
Or not to have out-lived that golden hour,
Or to win second birth before we die.
Sometimes within the breast to make us sigh
Or not to have out-lived that golden hour,
Or to win second birth before we die.
Us doubts disturb, or counter-aims confuse:
Ye—and your lesser strife let none despise—
Fight self-assured, and lose not though ye lose,
For the strong purpose is itself the prize.
Ye—and your lesser strife let none despise—
Fight self-assured, and lose not though ye lose,
For the strong purpose is itself the prize.
Full oft befalls that what imports our need
Is the deed's doing, not the deed we do:
And, nobly followed, Nature's self may lead
To heights we know not, though by paths we knew.
Is the deed's doing, not the deed we do:
And, nobly followed, Nature's self may lead
To heights we know not, though by paths we knew.
53
So toil and sport, if but for glory's sake;
Win Scholar's meed, fight grimly for the goal;
Grip bat, wield gloves, run, leap, and wrestle; make
Body and brain sound temple for the soul!
Win Scholar's meed, fight grimly for the goal;
Grip bat, wield gloves, run, leap, and wrestle; make
Body and brain sound temple for the soul!
True, time will wake you from your glory-dream,
Your name well nigh the fleeting hour forget;
And ye to your own larger selves may seem
The pigmies of a puppet-show: and yet
Your name well nigh the fleeting hour forget;
And ye to your own larger selves may seem
The pigmies of a puppet-show: and yet
The shrine of honour built of boyish praise,
The eager faiths our boyhood's bosom knew—
Say what amid life's shifting desert-ways
Than that more steadfast, or than these more true?
The eager faiths our boyhood's bosom knew—
Say what amid life's shifting desert-ways
Than that more steadfast, or than these more true?
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