LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC. 153
The bank slips by, we gather not its fruit,
We plant no seed, we irrigate no root
True men have planted ; and the tare and thorn
Spring to rank weedy vigour ; poisons shoot
Into the overspreading foliage ;
So as days darken into weary age
The flowers are fewer; the weeds are stronger
born
And hands are grown too feeble to assuage
“Their venom : then, th’ unutterable sea !
Is she green-cinctured with the earlier tree
Of Life? Do blossoms blow or weeds create
A foul rank undergrowth of misery ?
From the deep water of the bitterest brine
Drowned children raise their arms ; their lips combine
To force a shriek ; bid them go contemplate
The cold philosophy of Zeno’s shrine?
Nay, stretch a hand! Although their eagle clutch
- O’erturn thy skiff, yet it is overmuch
To grieve for that: life is not so divine—
I count it little grief to part with such!
We are wild serpents in a ring of fire;
Our necks stretch out, our haggard eyes aspire
In desperation, from the fearful line
Our coils revulse in impotence and ire.