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.