Flower o' the thorn A book of wayside verse: By John Payne |
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FELIX, INFELIX. |
 | Flower o' the thorn |  |
FELIX, INFELIX.
Den kann man selig preisen wessen
Natur nichts fordert als was die Welt
wünscht und braucht.
GOETHE.
THRICE happy he who can himself content
With what the mob suffices of his mates,
Life at its current price who takes and rates
Its chances by the world's admeasurement,
Who to the common error can consent
And with his foolish fellows loves and hates
Nor from the general dupery deviates,
But steers astray by public precedent.
For such as this Life's paths are smooth and plain;
Its goods, its honours, clamour for his clutch;
No envies dog his deeds; no hates restrain
His hopes; all doors fly open to his touch;
And when he dies, unjealous of his fame,
Men on the roll of honour write his name.
With what the mob suffices of his mates,
Life at its current price who takes and rates
Its chances by the world's admeasurement,
Who to the common error can consent
And with his foolish fellows loves and hates
Nor from the general dupery deviates,
But steers astray by public precedent.
For such as this Life's paths are smooth and plain;
Its goods, its honours, clamour for his clutch;
No envies dog his deeds; no hates restrain
His hopes; all doors fly open to his touch;
And when he dies, unjealous of his fame,
Men on the roll of honour write his name.
But some there be, so destined to defeat,
So curst of Fate, so sadly clear of sight,
They cannot ill for good hold, wrong for right,
But for bread hunger better and more sweet
Than ever yet was baked of worldly wheat,
Nor on Life's empty husks of vain delight
Can batten, nay, would rather starve outright
Than at the common swine-trough drink and eat.
Sons of some stranger star, through life they go,
For Pariahs branded in the public eye;
Men look on them and pass and greet them not.
Friendship nor pleasance, love nor peace they know,
But sorrow sole and strife; and when they die,
They buried are like dogs and so forgot.
So curst of Fate, so sadly clear of sight,
They cannot ill for good hold, wrong for right,
But for bread hunger better and more sweet
Than ever yet was baked of worldly wheat,
Nor on Life's empty husks of vain delight
Can batten, nay, would rather starve outright
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Sons of some stranger star, through life they go,
For Pariahs branded in the public eye;
Men look on them and pass and greet them not.
Friendship nor pleasance, love nor peace they know,
But sorrow sole and strife; and when they die,
They buried are like dogs and so forgot.
| Flower o' the thorn | |