We who have bowed ourselves to time
Now arm an uneventful rime
With panoply of flowers
Through the long summer hours. . . .
But now our fierce and warlike Muse
Doth soft companionship refuse,
And we must mount and ride
Upon a steed untried. . . .
We who have led by gradual ways
Our placid life to sterner days
And for old quiet things
Have set the strife of kings,
Who battled have with bloody hands
Through evil times in barren lands,
To whom the voice of guns
Speaks and no longer stuns,
Calm, though with death encompassed,
That watch the hours go overhead
Knowing too well we must
With all men come to dust. . . .
Crave of our masters' clemency
Silence a little space that we
Upon their ear may force
Tales of our trodden course.