Who sweats not with the flock will seek in vain
To shed the words which are ripe fruit of sun.
THE STATE OF AGE.
Rub thou thy battered lamp: nor claim nor beg
Honours from aught about thee. Light the young.
Thy frame is as a dusty mantle hung,
O gray one! pendant on a loosened peg.
Thou art for this our life an ancient egg,
Or a tough bird: thou hast a rudderless tongue,