And say our prayers still hoping for the best.

We fear old age and ugliness and pain,

And love our lives, nor look to live again.

I do but parable the crowd I know,

The human cattle grazing as they go,

Unheedful of the heavens. Here and there

Some prouder, may be, or less hungry steer

Lifting his face an instant to the sky,

And left behind as the bent herd goes by,

7

Or stung to a short madness, tossing wild

His horns aloft, and charging the gay field,

Till the fence stops him, and he vanquished too,

Turns to his browsing—lost his Waterloo.

The moral of my tale I leave to others

More bold, who point the finger at their brothers,

And surer know than I which way is best

To virtue's goal, where all of us find rest,

Whether in stern denial of things sweet,

Or yielding timely, lest life lose its feet

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