He throws up in his motions, and discern
By his dear, westering eye, the time of day.
O God, thou hast set us worthy gifts to earn,
Beside thy heaven and Thee! and when I say
'Tis worth while for the weakest man alive
To live and die,—there's room too, I repeat,
For all the strongest to live well, and strive
Their own way, by their individual heat,
Like a new bee-swarm leaving the old hive
Despite the wax which tempteth violet-sweet.
So let the living live, the dead retain
Flowers on cold graves!—though honour's best, supplied.
When we bring actions, to prove their's not vain.
XI.
That living mm who throb in heart and train,
Without the dead, were colder. If we tried
To sink the past beneath our feet, be sure
The future would not stand. Precipitate
This old roof from the shrine—and, insecure,
The nesting swallows fly off, mate from mate.
Scant were the gardens, if the graves were fewer!
And the green poplars grew no longer straight,
Whose tops not looked to Troy. Why, who would fight
For Athena, and not swear by Marathon?
Who would build temples, without tombs in sight?
Who live, without some dead man's benison?
Who seek truth, hope for good, or strive for right,
If, looking up, he saw not in the sun
Some angel of the martyrs, all day long
Standing and waiting! your last rhythms will need
