| |
|
(What the
heart of the young man said to the psalmist)
Tell me
not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty
dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And
things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life
is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust
thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the
soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our
destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Finds us farther than today.
Art is long, and
Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and
brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's
broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be
not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the
strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let
the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, -act in the living
Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives
of great men all remind us
We can make our lives
sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that
perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take
heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still
pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
|
|
|
