One makes men’s passions serve as steps to rise,
And mounts a throne—anon behold him fall;
Another dallies where soft accents call,
And reads his destiny in woman’s eyes.
In hunger’s arms I see the idler faint,
The laborer drive his ploughshare through the soil,
The wise man’s books, the warrior’s deadly toil,
The beggar by the wayside making plaint.
All pass; but whither? Whither flits the leaf
Chased by the rough blast, torn by winter rime?