Volume Iii Part 6 (2/2)
”Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit.”
”Gifts!” cried the friend. He took: and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, ”This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar.”
LEIGH HUNT.
LORD OF HIMSELF.
How happy is he born or taught Who serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill:
Whose pa.s.sions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death-- Not tied unto the world with care Of prince's ear or vulgar breath;
Who hath his ear from rumors freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise, Nor rules of state but rules of good; Who G.o.d doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend--
This man is free from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all.
SIR HENRY WOTTON.
THE GOOD GREAT MAN.
How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains.
For shame, dear friend; renounce this canting strain.
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?
Place, t.i.tles, salary, a gilded chain-- Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends.
Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures--love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath; And three firm friends, more sure than day and night-- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
DEATH THE LEVELER.
The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Scepter and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.
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