QUARE FATIGASTI 



And the myrtle bloom turns hoary, 

 And the blush of the rose decays, 

 And sodden with sweat and glory 



Are the hard-won laurels and bays ; 

 We are neither joyous nor sorry 

 When time has ended our story, 

 And blotted out grief, and glory, 



And the pain, and the pleasure, and the 

 praise. 



Weigh justly, through good and bad in 



The scales, will the balance veer 

 With the joys or the sorrows had in 



The sum of a life's career ? 

 In the end, spite of dreams that sadden 

 The sad, or the sanguine madden. 

 There is nothing to grieve or gladden. 

 There is nothing to hope or fear. 



** Thou hast gone astray," quoth the 

 preacher, 

 "In the gall of thy bitterness," 

 Thou hast taught me in vain, oh, teacher ! 



I neither blame thee nor bless ; 

 If bitter is sure and sweet sure, 



115 



