ARS LONGA 



But some have laid them down ere noon, 



And all at eve are weary ; 

 The noontide glows with no repose, 



And bitter chill the eve is. 

 The grasshopper a burden grows, 



*' Ars longa, vita brevisT 



The staff is snap't, the sandal fray'd, 



The flint-stone galls and blisters, 

 Our brother's steps we cannot aid. 



Ah, me ! nor aid our sister's ; 

 The pit prepares its hidden snares, 



The rock prepared to cleave is, 

 We cry, in falling unawares, 



^^ Ars longa, vita brevisT 



Oh ! Wisdom, which we sought to win ! 



Oh ! Strength, in which we trusted ! 

 Oh ! Glory, which we gloried in ! 



Oh ! puppets we adjusted ! 

 On barren land our seed is sand. 



And torn the web we weave is. 



The bruised reed hath pierced the hand, 



'' Ars longa, vita brevis'' 

 109 



