"Age! Age and experience bring discouragement," You taunt me: I maintain the opposite. Am I discouraged who, — perceiving health. Strength, beauty, as they tempt the eye of soul, Are uncombinable with flesh and blood, — Resolve to let my body live its best, And leave my soul what better yet may be Or not be, in this life or afterward? — In either fortune, wiser than who waits Till magic art procure a miracle. In virtue of my very confidence Mankind ought to outgrow its babyhood, I prescribe rocking, deprecate rough hands, While thus the cradle holds it past mistake. Indeed, my task's the harder — equable Sustainment everywhere, all strain, no push — Whereby friends credit me with indolence, Apathy, hesitation. "Stand stock-still If able to move briskly? 'All a-strain' — So must we compliment your passiveness? Sound asleep, rather!"
Just the judgment passed
Upon a statue, luckless like myself, I saw at Rome once! 'T was some artist's whim To cover all the accessories close I' the group, and leave you only Laocoön With neither sons nor serpents to denote The purpose of his gesture. Then a crowd Was called to try the question, criticize Wherefore such energy of legs and arms. Nay, eyeballs, starting from the socket. One — I give him leave to write my history — Only one said "I think the gesture strives Against some obstacle we cannot see." All the rest made their minds up. "'T is a yawn Of sheer fatigue subsiding to repose: The Statue's 'Somnolency' clear enough!" There, my arch stranger-friend, my audience both And arbitress, you have one half your wish, At least: you know the thing I tried to do! All, so far, to my praise and glory — all Told as befits the self-apologist, — Who ever promises a candid sweep And clearance of those errors miscalled crimes None knows more, none laments so much as he, And ever rises from confession, proved A god whose fault was — trying to be man. Just so, fair judge, — if I read smile aright — I condescend to figure in your eyes As biggest heart and best of Europe's friends, And hence my failure. God will estimate Success one day; and, in the mean time — you! I daresay there's some fancy of the sort Frolicking round this final puff I send To die up yonder in the ceiling-rose, — Some consolation-stakes, we losers win! A plague of the return to "I — I — I Did this, meant that, hoped, feared the other thing!" Autobiography, adieu! The rest Shall make amends, be pure blame, history And falsehood: not the ineffective truth, But Thiers-and-Victor-Hugo exercise. Hear what I never was, but might have been I' the better world where goes tobacco-smoke! Here lie the dozen volumes of my life: (Did I say "lie?" the pregnant word will serve.) Cut on to the concluding chapter, though! Because the little hours begin to strike. Hurry Thiers-Hugo to the labour's end!
Something like this the unwritten chapter reads.