Here, in Learning’s shaded haunt, The battle-fugue and mingled cries forlorn Softened to music seem, nor the clear spirit daunt; Here, in the gracious world that looks From earth and sky and books, Easeful and sweet it seems all else to scorn Than works of noble use and virtue born; Brave hope and high ambition consecrate Our coming years to something great. But when the man has stood, Anon, in garish outer light, Feeling the first wild fever of the blood That places self with self at strife Whether to hoard or drain the wine of life,— When the broad pageant flares upon the sight, And tuneful Pleasure plumes her wing And the crowds jostle and the mad bells ring,— Then he, who sees the vain world take slow heed Albeit of his worthiest and best, And still, through years of failure and unrest, Would keep inviolate his vow, Of all his faith and valor has sore need! Even then, I know, do nobly as we will, What we would not, we do, and see not how; That which we would, is not, we know not why; Some fortune holds us from our purpose still,— Chance sternly beats us back, and turns our steps awry! VI. YOUTH AND AGE. How slow, how sure, how swift, The sands within each glass, The brief, illusive moments, pass! Half unawares we mark their drift Till the awakened heart cries out,—Alas! Alas, the fair occasion fled, The precious chance to action all unwed! And murmurs in its depths the old refrain,— Had we but known betimes what now we know in vain! When the veil from the eyes is lifted The seer’s head is gray; When the sailor to shore has drifted The sirens are far away. Why must the clearer vision, The wisdom of Life’s late hour, Come, as in Fate’s derision, When the hand has lost its power? Is there a rarer being, Is there a fairer sphere Where the strong are not unseeing, And the harvests are not sere; Where, ere the seasons dwindle They yield their due return; Where the lamps of knowledge kindle While the flames of youth still burn? O for the young man’s chances! O for the old man’s will! Those flee while this advances, And the strong years cheat us still. VII. WHAT CHEER?