Page:Words for the Hour.djvu/165

    But with the awful brow,    The still, hushed presence thou,The eyes that darken not the world with weeping,    The hand that never fails    To match the golden scalesWith the heart wealth, left countless to thy keeping.

    Thou from the infant's birth    To the last day of earthWith tireless skill each fateful action fitting;    A genius at his side,    Divine to rule and guide,Nor overcome at last, thro' fall and flitting;

    Thou, at the classic feast    By garlands unappeased,Responding not to fondest invocation    Of youthful votaries,    Till holy SocratesUplift their hearts to thine eternal shining.

    Mute at the high command,    The solemn voice and hand,Loud mirth and tipsy jollity sink under;