Xxi

"Ah, Youth!" ran the Abbot's admonishment, "Thine error scarce moves my astonishment. For--why shall I shrink from asserting?-- Myself have had hopes of converting The foolish to wisdom, till, sober, My life found its May grow October. I talked and I wrote, but, one morning, Life's Autumn bore fruit in this warning: 'Let tongue rest, and quiet thy quill be! Earth is earth and not heaven, and ne'er will be.' Man's work is to labor and leaven-- As best he may--earth here with heaven; 'T is work for work's sake that he 's needing: Let, him work on and on as if speeding Work's end, but not dream of succeeding! Because if success were intended, Why, heaven would begin ere earth ended. A Spare-Horse? Be rather a thill-horse, Or--what 's the plain truth--just a mill-horse! Earth 's a mill where we grind and wear mufflers: A whip awaits shirkers and shufflers Who slacken their pace, sick of lugging At what don't advance for their tugging. Though round goes the mill, we must still post On and on as if moving the mill-post. So, grind away, mouth-wise and pen-wise, Do all that we can to make men wise! And if men prefer to be foolish, Ourselves have proved horse-like not mulish: Sent grist, a good sackful, to hopper, And worked as the Master thought proper. Tongue I wag, pen I ply, who am Abbot; Stick, thou, Son, to daub-brush and dab-pot! But, soft! I scratch hard on the scab hot? Though cured of thy plague, there may linger A pimple I fray with rough finger? So soon could my homily transmute Thy brass into gold? Why, the man 's mute!"