For what then was I born?--to fill the circling year With daily toil for daily bread, with sordid pains and pleasures?-- To walk this chequered world, alternate light and darkness, The day-dreams of deep thought followed by the night-dreams of fancy?-- To be one in a full procession?--to dig my kindred clay?-- To decorate the gallery of art?--to clear a few acres of forest? For more than these, my soul, thy God hath lent thee life. Is then that noble end to feed this mind with knowledge, To mix for mine own thirst the sparkling wine of wisdom, To light with many lamps the caverns of my heart, To reap, in the furrows of my brain, good harvest of right reasons?-- For more than these, my soul, thy God hath lent thee life. Is it to grow stronger in self-government, to check the chafing will, To curb with tightening rein the mettled steeds of passion, To welcome with calm heart, far in the voiceless desert, The gracious visitings of heaven that bless my single self?-- For more than these, my soul, thy God hath lent thee life. To aim at thine own happiness, is an end idolatrous and evil; In earth, yea in heaven, if thou seek it for itself, seeking thou shalt not find. Happiness is a road-side flower, growing on the highway of Usefulness; Plucked, it shall wither in thy hand; passed by, it is fragrance to thy spirit: Love not thine own soul, regard not thine own weal, Trample the thyme beneath thy feet; be useful, and be happy! Thus unto fair conclusions argueth generous youth, And quickly he starteth on his course, knight-errant to do good. His sword is edged with arguments, his vizor terrible with censures; He goeth full mailed in faith, and zeal is flaming at his heart. Yet one thing he lacketh, the Mentor of the mind, The quiet whisper of Discretion--Thy time is not yet come. For he smiteth an oppressor; and vengeance for that smiting Is dealt in doubled stripes on the faint body of the victim: He is glad to give and to distribute; and clamorous pauperism feasteth, While honest labour, pining, hideth his sharp ribs: He challengeth to a fair field that subtle giant Infidelity, And, worsted in the unequal fight, strengtheneth the hands of error; He hasteth to teach and preach, as the war-horse rusheth to the battle, And to pave a way for truth, would break up the Apennines of prejudice: He wearieth by stale proofs, where none looked for a reason, And to the listening ear will urge the false argument of feeling. So hath it often been, that, judging by results, The hottest friends of truth have done her deadliest wrong. Alas! for there are enemies without, glad enough to parley with a traitor, And a zealot will let down the drawbridge, to prove his own prowess: Yea, from within will he break away a breach in the citadel of truth, That he may fill the gap, for fame, with his own weak body.