Auld Lang Syne: Selections from the Papers of the "Pen and Pencil Club"
Poor restless heart! still thy lament, Crave not for rest, refusèd still, There is some struggle,—discontent, That stays thy will.

Poor

Be brave to meet unrest, Nor seek from work release, Clasp struggle close unto thy breast, Until it brings thee peace.

Seek not in creed a resting-place From problems that around thee surge, But look doubt bravely in the face, Till truth emerge.

Work out the problem of thy life, To no convention chainèd be, Against self-love wage ceaseless strife, And thus be free.

Then, if in harmony thou livest, With all that’s in thy nature best, Who “Sleep to his beloved giveth,”  Will give thee rest.

p. 46REST.

p. 46

His Mother was a Prince’s child, His Father was a King; There wanted not to that proud lot What power or wealth could bring; Great nobles served him, bending low, Strong captains wrought his will; Fair fortune!—but it wearied him, His spirit thirsted still!

His

For him the glorious music roll’d Of singers, silent long; Grave histories told, in scrolls of old, The strife of right and wrong; For him Philosophy unveil’d Athenian Plato’s lore, Might these not serve to fill a life? Not this! he sigh’d for more!

He loved!—the truest, newest lip That ever lover pressed, The queenliest mouth of all the south Long love for him confess’d: Round him his children’s joyousness Rang silverly and shrill; Thrice blessed! save that blessedness Lack’d something—something still!

p. 47To battle all his spears he led, In streams of winding steel; On breast and head of foeman dead His war-horse set its heel; The jewell’d housings of its flank Swung wet with blood of kings; Yet the rich victory seem’d rank With the blood taint it brings!

p. 47

The splendid passion seized his soul To heal, by statutes sage, The ills that bind our hapless kind. And chafe to crime and rage; And dear the people’s blessing was, The praising of the poor; But evil stronger is than thrones, And hate no laws can cure!

He laid aside the sword and pen, And lit the lamp, to wrest From nature’s range the secrets strange, The treasures 
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