PRAISE of the wise and good! -- it is a meed For which I would lone years of toil endure; Which many a peril, many a grief would cure! As onward I with weary feet proceed, My swelling heart continues still to bleed; The glittering prize holds out its distant lure, But seems, as nearer I approach, less sure, And never to my prayer to be decreed! -- With anxious ear I listen to the voice That shall pronounce the precious boon I ask; But yet it comes not, -- or it comes in doubt -- Slave to the passion of my earliest choice, From youth to age I ply my daily task, And hope, e'en till the lamp of life goes out. |