'I have play'd,' quoth he, and won,

The deed of my life is done;

The hope of my youth and prime
Is ripe at its destined time:

I clutch the golden apple,

I hold my head on high ;

I thank thee, oh my Fortune,
And let the world go by ;

For grief no more shall touch me!'
Oh fool! there's danger nigh!

Whatever grief thou'st borne,

Whatever pangs have torn

Thy desolate heart forlorn,

Are nothing to compare

With the brood of grief that nestle
At the core of thine apple fair.
They breed in thy happy fortune

Thy dearest hopes to cross;
Poor dupe! thy good is evil,
Thy victory is loss.

13

XIV.

"A young man sits lamenting With his children at his knee,

And his fond true wife beside him : 'I'm a wretch!' quoth he;

'An evil fate pursues me;

Whate'er I touch I slay;

And this, my last reliance

My chance, my hope, my stay—

Has died like the last year's blossoms,

Never to bloom again!'

Oh blind, to grieve at Fortune!

Oh sluggard, to complain!

The thing which thou hast lost

Was big with coming sorrow;

Joy dwelt on its lips to-day,

Grief grew in its heart for morrow.

Look up to Heaven, thou dreamer!

If smitten, thou art whole;

And learn that a pang surmounted,
Is healing to the soul."

XV.

Half-past twelve on the turret clock,
Thou'rt gone, oh Spirit of Noon!

With the last faint echoes of the chime,
That died in the woods of June.

Thou'rt gone, in thy robe of amber,

And diadem of flame,

To make the wide world's circuit

Another, and yet the same;

To bear God's justice with thee,
And scatter it through the Earth ;
To balance the wonder of our death

By the mystery of our birth;

15

XIV.

"A young man sits lamenting With his children at his knee,

And his fond true wife beside him: 'I'm a wretch!' quoth he;

An evil fate pursues me;

Whate'er I touch I slay;

And this, my last reliance

My chance, my hope, my stay

Has died like the last year's blossoms, Never to bloom again!'

Oh blind, to grieve at Fortune!

Oh sluggard, to complain!

The thing which thou hast lost

Was big with coming sorrow;

Joy dwelt on its lips to-day,

Grief grew in its heart for morrow.

Look up to Heaven, thou dreamer!

If smitten, thou art whole;

And learn that a pang surmounted,
Is healing to the soul."

15

XV.

Half-past twelve on the turret clock,
Thou'rt gone, oh Spirit of Noon!

With the last faint echoes of the chime,
That died in the woods of June.

Thou'rt gone, in thy robe of amber,

And diadem of flame,

To make the wide world's circuit

Another, and yet the same;

To bear God's justice with thee,
And scatter it through the Earth ;
To balance the wonder of our death

By the mystery of our birth;