My last on earth, and, ere the frondage green

Had changed to gold, I should have join'd the ranks

Of dull dead men who lived for little thanks

And made the most thereof, though penance-bound.

I should have known that in the daily round

Of mine existence, there are griefs to spare,

But joys, alas! too few on any ground.

xv.

And here I stand to-day with bended head,

A

A

A

My task undone, my garden overspread

With baneful weeds. Am I the lord thereof?

Or mine own slave, without the power to doff

My misery's badge? Am I so weak withal,

That I must loiter, though the bugle's call

Shrills o'er the moor, the far-off weltering moor,

Where foemen meet to vanquish or to fall?

xvi.

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