Set not thy foot on graves; Nor seek to unwind the shroud Which charitable Time And Nature have allowed To wrap the errors of a sage sublime. Set not thy foot on graves; Care not to strip the dead Of his sad ornament, His myrrh, and wine, and rings, His sheet of lead, And trophies buried: Go, get them where he earned them when alive; As resolutely dig or dive. Life is too short to waste 'T will soon be dark; Up! mind thine own aim, and God speed the mark! DESTINY THAT you are fair or wise is vain, Well may Jove and Juno scorn. Which drives me mad with sweet desire, What all the goods thy pride which lift, Victim of perpetual slight: When thou lookest on his face, Thy heart saith, Brother, go thy ways! None shall ask thee what thou doest, Or care a rush for what thou knowest, Or remember where thou liest, To make the sun forgotten.' Surely he carries a talisman Broad his shoulders are and strong; I hold it of little matter Whether your jewel be of pure water, But whether it dazzle me with light. Nor whether your name is base or brave: Bid my bread feed and my fire warm me And dress up Nature in your favor.2 One thing is forever good; That one thing is Success, Dear to the Eumenides, And to all the heavenly brood. Who bides at home, nor looks abroad, Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.3 GUY MORTAL mixed of middle clay, That all things from him began; And as, of old, Polycrates Chained the sunshine and the breeze, So did Guy betimes discover If on the foeman fell his gaze, Him it would straightway blind or craze, It seemed his Genius discreet Worked on the Maker's own receipt, And made each tide and element Stewards of stipend and of rent; So that the common waters fell As costly wine into his well. He had so sped his wise affairs That he caught Nature in his snares. Early or late, the falling rain Arrived in time to swell his grain; Stream could not so perversely wind But corn of Guy's was there to grind: The siroc found it on its way, To speed his sails, to dry his hay; And the world's sun seemed to rise \To drudge all day for Guy the wise. In his rich nurseries, timely skill Strong crab with nobler blood did fill; The zephyr in his garden rolled From plum-trees vegetable gold; And all the hours of the year With their own harvest honored were. There was no frost but welcome came, Nor freshet, nor midsummer flame. Belonged to wind and world the toil And venture, and to Guy the oil. |