NOTES 633 



With toil infinite, endless pain, 



The racking labour of the brain ; 



The knowledge that our age endows ; 



The wisdom vested in our brows ; 



Who teach us how to weigh the star 



Or harness nature to the car, 



To handle lightning, hold the fire, 



To tame the tempest's feeble ire. 



To drive the skulking sickness hence 



And curb the murd'rous pestilence. 



There dwell the men who mould our tho't 



In beauteous phrases justly wro't ; 



Who give experience without pain 



In tales to teach or entertain ; 



Who make the music that's divine 



To strengthen, gladden and refine ; 



Who feast the eyes and lift the heart 



With labour'd gems of perfect art ; 



Who give us all that makes us great 



Above the prime barbaric state. 



No wonder Britain rules us when 



She honours thus her greatest men." 



" Oh no," the local swain replies ; 



" There lives a man who makes pork-pies ; 



In that there house, so folk aver, 



A noble Jewish usurer ; 



In yonder one a mighty peer 



Who brews from chemicals our beer ; 



A politician, lawyer, quack 



Lives there, and there ; and further back 



A stnart municipal contractor, 



A welcher, and a comic actor.' 



So goes the tale ; and such the gods 



Who dwell in Britain's blest abodes. 



And where are they who bless ? Unknown 



Each toils in silence and alone ; 



His highest glory, to have none ; 



His widest fame, to be unknown ; 



His greatest riches, to be poor ; 



His keenest pleasure, to endure. 



For mark the law that underlies — 



By work alone one cannot rise ; 



He wins no wealth who merely toils ; 



The idle schemer takes the spoils. 



Who stands upright in Britain falls. 



He wins the prize of life who crawls. 



II 



