Part 10 (1/2)

Talk about better and wiser, Wiser and worse are one, The sophist is the despiser Of all things under the sun; Is nothing real but confusion?

Is nothing certain but death?

Is nothing fair save illusion?

Is nothing good that has breath?

Some sprite, malignant and elfish, Seems present whispering close, ”All motives of life are selfish, All instincts of life are gross; And the song that the poet fas.h.i.+ons, And the love-bird's musical strain, Are jumbles of animal pa.s.sions, Refined by animal pain.”

The restless throbbings and burnings That hope unsatisfied brings, The weary longings and yearnings For the mystical better things, Are the sands on which is reflected The pitiless moving lake, Where the wanderer falls dejected, By a thirst he never can slake.

A child blows bubbles that glitter, He s.n.a.t.c.hes them, they disperse; Yet childhood's folly is better, And manhood's folly is worse; Gilt baubles we grasp at blindly Would turn in our hands to dross; 'Tis a fate less cruel than kindly Denies the gain and the loss.

And as one who pursues a shadow, As one who hunts in a dream, As the child who crosses the meadow, Enticed by the rainbow's gleam, I--knowing the course was foolish, And guessing the goal was pain, Stupid, and stubborn, and mulish-- Followed and follow again.

The sun over Gideon halted, Holding aloof the night, When Joshua's arm was exalted, Yet never retraced his flight; Nor will he turn back, nor can he, He chases the future fast; The future is blank--oh, Annie!

I fain would recall the past.

There are others toiling and straining 'Neath burdens graver than mine-- They are weary, yet uncomplaining-- I know it, yet I repine; I know it, how time will ravage, How time will level, and yet I long with a longing savage, I regret with a fierce regret.

You are no false ideal, Something is left of you, Present, perceptible, real, Palpable, tangible, true; One shred of your broken necklace, One tress of your pale, gold hair, And a heart so utterly reckless, That the worst it would gladly dare.

There is little pleasure, if any, In waking the past anew; My days and nights have been many; Lost chances many I rue-- My days and nights have been many; Now I pray that they be few, When I think on the hill-side, Annie, Where I dreamt that the skies were blue.

Ars Longa

[A Song of Pilgrimage]

Our hopes are wild imaginings, Our schemes are airy castles, Yet these, on earth, are lords and kings, And we their slaves and va.s.sals; Your dream, forsooth, of buoyant youth, Most ready to deceive is; But age will own the bitter truth, ”Ars longa, vita brevis.”

The hill of life with eager feet We climbed in merry morning, But on the downward track we meet The shades of twilight warning; The shadows gaunt they fall aslant, And those who scaled Ben Nevis, Against the mole-hills toil and pant, ”Ars longa, vita brevis.”

The obstacles that barr'd our path We seldom quail'd to dash on In youth, for youth one motto hath, ”The will, the way must fas.h.i.+on.”

Those words, I wot, blood thick and hot, Too ready to believe is, But thin and cold our blood hath got, ”Ars longa, vita brevis.”

And ”art is long”, and ”life is short”, And man is slow at learning; And yet by divers dealings taught, For divers follies yearning, He owns at last, with grief downcast (For man disposed to grieve is)-- One adage old stands true and fast, ”Ars longa, vita brevis.”

We journey, manhood, youth, and age, The matron, and the maiden, Like pilgrims on a pilgrimage, Loins girded, heavy laden:-- Each pilgrim strong, who joins our throng, Most eager to achieve is, Foredoom'd ere long to swell the song, ”Ars longa, vita brevis.”

At morn, with staff and sandal-shoon, We travel brisk and cheery, But some have laid them down ere noon, And all at eve are weary; The noontide glows with no repose, And bitter chill the eve is, The gra.s.shopper a burden grows, ”Ars longa, vita brevis.”

The staff is snapp'd, the sandal fray'd, The flint-stone galls and blisters, Our brother's steps we cannot aid, Ah me! nor aid our sister's: The pit prepares its hidden snares, The rock prepared to cleave is, We cry, in falling unawares, ”Ars longa, vita brevis.”

Oh! Wisdom, which we sought to win!

Oh! Strength, in which we trusted!

Oh! Glory, which we gloried in!