Even in a palace, life may be led well! So spake the imperial sage, purest of men, Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,
Our freedom for a little bread we sell, And drudge under some foolish master's ken Who rates us if we peer outside our pen -- Match'd with a palace, is not this a hell?
Even in a palace! On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words, no shadow ever came; And when my ill-school'd spirit is aflame
Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, I'll stop, and say: "There were no succour here! The aids to noble life are all within."
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn, The humble Sheep a threat’ning horn; While the Lilly white shall in Love delight, Nor a thorn, nor a threat, stain her beauty bright.
How sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! From the morn to the evening he strays; He shall follow his sheep all the day, And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
For he hears the lamb's innocent call, And he hears the ewe's tender reply; He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.
Youth of delight, come hither, And see the opening morn, Image of truth new born. Doubt is fled, & clouds of reason, Dark disputes & artful teazing. Folly is an endless maze, Tangled roots perplex her ways. How many have fallen there! They stumble all night over bones of the dead, And feel they know not what but care, And wish to lead others, when they should be led.
I WOULD be as ignorant as the dawn, That has looked down On that old queen measuring a town With the pin of a brooch, Or on the withered men that saw From their pedantic Babylon The careless planets in their courses, The stars fade out where the moon comes, And took their tablets and made sums-- Yet did but look, rocking the glittering coach Above the cloudy shoulders of the horses. I would be -- for no knowledge is worth a straw -- Ignorant and wanton as the dawn.
I walked abroad in a snowy day: I ask'd the soft snow with me to play: She play'd & she melted in all her prime, And the winter call'd it a dreadful crime.
My spirit is too weak -- mortality Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep, And each imagined pinnacle and steep Of godlike hardship tells me I must die Like a sick eagle looking at the sky. Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep That I have not the cloudy winds to keep Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye. Such dim-conceived glories of the brain Bring round the heart an undescribable feud; So do these wonders a most dizzy pain, That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude Wasting of old time--with a billowy main -- A sun--a shadow of a magnitude.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 