Hope is the dupe of future hours,
Memory lives in those gone by;
Neither can see the moment's flowers
Springing up fresh beneath the eye,
Wouldst thou, or thou,
Forego what's now,
For all that Hope may say?
No—Joy's reply,
From every eye,
Is, "Live we while we may,"
SONG OF THE POCO-CURANTE SOCIETY.
haud curat Hippoclides.
ERASM. Adag.
To those we love we've drank tonight;
But now attend and stare not,
While I the ampler list recite
Of those for whom WE CARE NOT.
For royal men, howe'er they frown,
If on their fronts they bear not
That noblest gem that decks a crown,
The People's Love—WE CARE NOT.
For slavish men who bend beneath
A despot yoke, yet dare not
Pronounce the will whose very breath
Would rend its links—WE CARE NOT.
For priestly men who covet sway
And wealth, tho' they declare not;
Who point, like finger-posts, the way
They never go—WE CARE NOT.
For martial men who on their sword,
Howe'er it conquers, wear not
The pledges of a soldier's word,
Redeemed and pure—WE CARE NOT.
For legal men who plead for wrong.
And, tho' to lies they swear not,
Are hardly better than the throng
Of those who do—WE CARE NOT.
For courtly men who feed upon
The land, like grubs, and spare not
The smallest leaf where they can sun
Their crawling limbs—WE CARE NOT.