Academus

Perhaps there's neither tear nor smile, When once beyond the grave. Woe's me: but let me live meanwhile Amongst the bright and brave;

My summers lapse away beneath Their cool Athenian shade: And I a string for myrtle-wreath, A whetstone unto blade;

I cheer the games I cannot play; As stands a crippled squire To watch his master through the fray, Uplifted by desire.

I roam, where little pleasures fall, As morn to morn succeeds, To melt, or ere the sweetness pall, Like glittering manna-beads.

The wishes dawning in the eyes, The softly murmured thanks; The zeal of those that miss the prize On clamorous river-banks;

The quenchless hope, the honest choice, The self-reliant pride, The music of the pleading voice That will not be denied;

The wonder flushing in the cheek, The questions many a score, When I grow eloquent, and speak Of England, and of war--

Oh, better than the world of dress And pompous dining, out, Better than simpering and finesse Is all this stir and rout.

I'll borrow life, and not grow old; And nightingales and trees Shall keep me, though the veins be cold, As young as Sophocles.

And when I may no longer live, They'll say, who know the truth, He gave whatever he had to give To freedom and to youth.