Part 2 (1/2)

'Borne on the swift, though silent, wings of Time, 'Old-age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.

XXVI.

'And be it so. Let those deplore their doom, 'Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.

'But lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb, 'Can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.

'Shall spring to these sad scenes no more return?

'Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?

'Soon shall the orient with new l.u.s.tre burn, 'And spring shall soon her vital influence shed, 'Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead.

XXVII.

'Shall I be left abandoned in the dust, 'When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?

'Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 'Bid him, though doomed to perish, hope to live?

'Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 'With disappointment, penury, and pain?

'No: Heaven's immortal spring shall yet arrive; 'And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 'Bright through the eternal year of Love's triumphant reign.'

XXVIII.

This truth sublime his simple sire had taught.

In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew.

No subtle nor superfluous lore he sought, Nor ever wished his Edwin to pursue.

'Let man's own sphere (quoth he) confine his view, 'Be man's peculiar work his sole delight.'

And much, and oft, he warned him, to eschew Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right, By pleasure unseduced, unawed by lawless might.

XXIX.

'And, from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe, 'O never, never turn away thine ear.

'Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below, 'Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!

'To others do (the law is not severe) 'What to thyself thou wishest to be done.

'Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear, 'And friends, and native land; nor those alone; 'All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own.'

x.x.x.

See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower, The visionary boy from shelter fly!

For now the storm of summer-rain is o'er, And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky.

And, lo! in the dark east, expanded high, The rainbow brightens to the setting sun!

Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh, How vain the chace thine ardour has begun!

'Tis fled afar, ere half thy purposed race be run.

x.x.xI.