Brethren, war's the origin Of happiness on earth: Powder-smoke and battle-din Witness friendship's birth! Friendship means three things, you know,-- Kinship in luckless plight, Equality before the foe Freedom--in death's sight!
"Rather on your toes stand high Than crawl upon all fours, Rather through the keyhole spy Than through the open doors!"
Renown you're quite resolved to earn? My thought about it Is this: you need not fame, must learn To do without it!
I an inquirer? No, that's not my calling Only _I weigh a lot_--I'm such a lump!-- And through the waters I keep falling, falling, Till on the ocean's deepest bed I bump.
_The Immortals._ "To-day is meet for me, I come to-day," Such is the speech of men foredoomed to stay. "Thou art too soon," they cry, "thou art too late," What care the Immortals what the rabble say?
The weary shun the glaring sun, afraid, And only care for trees to gain the shade.
"He sinks, he falls," your scornful looks portend: The truth is, to your level he'll descend. His Too Much Joy is turned to weariness, His Too Much Light will in your darkness end.
_Nature Silenced_[3] Around my neck, on chain of hair, The timepiece hangs--a sign of care. For me the starry course is o'er, No sun and shadow as before, No cockcrow summons at the door, For nature tells the time no more! Too many clocks her voice have drowned, And droning law has dulled her sound.
Strange to the crowd, yet useful to the crowd, I still pursue my path, now sun, now cloud, But always pass above the crowd!
She now has wit--how did it come her way? A man through her his reason lost, they say. His head, though wise ere to this pastime lent, Straight to the devil--no, to woman went!
"Oh, might all keys be lost! 'Twere better so And in all keyholes might the pick-lock go!" Who thus reflects ye may as--picklock know.
I write not with the hand alone, My foot would write, my foot that capers, Firm, free and bold, it's marching on Now through the fields, now through the papers.
Shy, gloomy, when your looks are backward thrust, Trusting the future where yourself you trust, Are you an eagle, mid the nobler fowl, Or are you like Minerva's darling owl?
Good teeth and a digestion good I wish you--these you need, be sure! And, certes, if my book you've stood, Me with good humour you'll endure.