Make for the city!) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: "What's in the scroll," quoth he, "thou keepest furled? "Show me their shaping, "Theirs who most studied man, the bard and sage,— "Give!”—So, he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page: Yea, but we found him bald too, eyes like lead, "Time to taste life," another would have said, This man said rather, "Actual life comes next? "Patience a moment! "Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, "Still there's the comment. "Let me know all! Prate not of most or least, "Painful or easy! Even to the crumbs I 'd fain eat up the feast, 'Ay, nor feel queasy.” Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give! Sooner, he spurned it. Image the whole, then execute the parts Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, (Here's the town-gate reached; there's the market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus!) That before living he 'd learn how to live- Earn the means first—God surely will contrive Use for our earning. Others mistrust and say, "But time escapes ! "Live now or never!" He said, "What's time? Leave Now for dogs and apes! "Man has Forever." Back to his book then : deeper drooped his head : Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead: "Now, master, take a little rest!"—not he! Step two a-breast, the way winds narrowly!) Back to his studies, fresher than at first, He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure Was it not great? did not he throw on God God's task to make the heavenly period Did not he magnify the mind, show clear He would not discount life, as fools do here, Paid by instalment. He ventured neck or nothing-heaven's success Found, or earth's failure: "Wilt thou trust death or not?" He answered "Yes! "Hence with life's pale lure !" That low man seeks a little thing to do, Sees it and does it :. This high man, with a great thing to pursue, That low man goes on adding one to one, This high man, aiming at a million, Misses an unit. That, has the world here-should he need the next, This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed So, with the throttling hands of death at strife, Still, thro' the rattle, parts of speech were rife: He settled Hoti's business-let it be ! Properly based Oun— Gave us the doctrine of the enclitic De, Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place: All ye highfliers of the feathered race, Here's the top-peak; the multitude below This man decided not to Live but Know- Here-here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, Peace let the dew send ! Lofty designs must ciose in like effects: Loftily lying, Leave him—still loftier than the world suspects, Living and dying. CLEON. "As certain also of your own poets have said" CLEON the poet, (from the sprinkled isles, And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece") To Protus in his Tyranny: much health! They give thy letter to me, even now: And one white she-slave, from the group dispersed Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands Well-counselled, king, in thy munificence! For so shall men remark, in such an act Nor call thy spirit barely adequate To help on life in straight ways, broad enough Did'st ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake : Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope Of some eventual rest a-top of it, Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed, Thou first of men mightst look out to the East: The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun. For this, I promise on thy festival To pour libation, looking o'er the sea, Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak Thy great words and describe thy royal faceWishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most, Within the eventual element of calm. Thy letter's first requirement meets me here. It is as thou hast heard: in one short life I, Cleon, have effected all those things Thou wonderingly dost enumerate. That epos on thy hundred plates of gold Is mine, and also mine the little chant So sure to rise from every fishing bark When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net. The image of the sun-god on the phare, Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine; The Pocile, o'er-storied its whole length, As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too. I know the true proportions of a man And woman also, not observed before; And putting us to ignorance again. For music,-why, I have combined the moods, |