Though the warm sap creepeth up its bark, filling out the sheaf of leaves,
Though knowledge of all things beside add proofs of seeming vigour,
Though the master-mind of the royal sage feast on the mysteries of wisdom,
Yet ignorance of self shall bow down the spirit of a Solomon to idols;
The storm of temptation, sweeping by, shall snap that oak like a reed,
And the proud luxuriance of its tufted crown drag it the sooner to the dust.
Youth, confident in self, tampereth with dangerous dalliance,
Till the vice his heart once hated hath locked him in her foul embrace:
Manhood, through zeal of doing good, seeketh high place for its occasions,
Unwitting that the bleak mountain-air will nip the tender budding of his motives: