The Elder’s Rebuke
“Listen! When your hair, like mine,Takes a tint of silver gray;When your eyes, with dimmer shine,Watch life’s bubbles float away:
When you, young man, have borne like meThe weary weight of sixty-three,Then shall penance sore be paidFor those hours so wildly squandered;And the words that now fall deadOn your ear, be deeply pondered—Pondered and approved at last:But their virtue will be past!
“Glorious is the prize of Duty,Though she be ‘a serious power’;Treacherous all the lures of Beauty,Thorny bud and poisonous flower!
“Mirth is but a mad beguilingOf the golden-gifted time;Love—a demon-meteor, wilingHeedless feet to gulfs of crime.
“Those who follow earthly pleasure,Heavenly knowledge will not lead;Wisdom hides from them her treasure,Virtue bids them evil-speed!
“Vainly may their hearts repenting.Seek for aid in future years;Wisdom, scorned, knows no relenting;Virtue is not won by fears.”
Thus spake the ice-blooded elder gray;The young man scoffed as he turned away,Turned to the call of a sweet lute’s measure,Waked by the lightsome touch of pleasure:Had he ne’er met a gentler teacher,Woe had been wrought by that pitiless preacher.