159 
For 1 have deadlier foes to quell 
Than bow’d ’neath Philip’s spear, 
And realms he wot not of, to win, 
Imperishably fair. 
A blade of grass — a simple flower— 
Cull’d from the dewy lea, 
These, these shall speak with touching power 
Of “ change and death” to me. 
For if “ stars teach as well as shine,” 
Not less these gems of earth, 
In budding bloom and pale decline, 
May pour instruction forth. 
Come, then, and ever when I stray, 
Breathe still the solemn cry, 
‘ Man and his glory, what are they ? 
Fragile as grass or flow’ret gay, 
Which blossoms but to die.’ 
