Poems original and translated By John Herman Merivale ... A new and corrected edition with some additional pieces |
| I. |
 |
| II. |
|
SONG.—“COULD A MAN BE SECURE.” |
 |
|
|
 | Poems original and translated |  |
SONG.—“COULD A MAN BE SECURE.”
Could a man be aware
Of the turmoil and care
That a life of ambition attend,
Would he not cast away
Every thought of to-day,
And trifle and dream without end?
Of the turmoil and care
That a life of ambition attend,
Would he not cast away
Every thought of to-day,
And trifle and dream without end?
Were the miser but told,
Once or ere he grow old,
“All the treasure you leave will be lost—
All the wealth that you've stored
Can no premium afford
To your ashes, nor profit your ghost”—
Once or ere he grow old,
“All the treasure you leave will be lost—
All the wealth that you've stored
Can no premium afford
To your ashes, nor profit your ghost”—
Could the soldier's stern eye
'Mid the battle descry,
Thro' the cannon's loud thunder and smoke,
What a shade of a shade
Is the idol he made,
And the altar he built, what a joke—
'Mid the battle descry,
Thro' the cannon's loud thunder and smoke,
What a shade of a shade
Is the idol he made,
And the altar he built, what a joke—
Could the sage, nigh his urn,
His vain learning unlearn,
But this one piece of knowledge to scan;
That, howe'er he may prize
The keen sight of his eyes,
Yet the blindest of creatures is man—
His vain learning unlearn,
But this one piece of knowledge to scan;
250
The keen sight of his eyes,
Yet the blindest of creatures is man—
Would the miser persist
Still in closing his fist,
The soldier his phantom embrace,
Or again at his book
The philosopher look,
And the same endless diagrams trace?
Still in closing his fist,
The soldier his phantom embrace,
Or again at his book
The philosopher look,
And the same endless diagrams trace?
Then no longer upbraid
That boon Nature has made
Stupid mortals to delve and to spin;
Were their labours untried,
And their books laid aside,
They'd soon fade and grow rotten within.
That boon Nature has made
Stupid mortals to delve and to spin;
Were their labours untried,
And their books laid aside,
They'd soon fade and grow rotten within.
| Poems original and translated | |