How did it happen, my poor boy? You wanted to be Buonaparte And have the Tuileries for toy, And could not, so it broke your heart? You, old one by his side, I judge, Were, red as blood, a socialist, A leveller! Does the Empire grudge You’ve gained what no Republic missed? Be quiet, and unclinch your fist!
And this--why, he was red in vain, Or black,--poor fellow that is blue! What fancy was it, turned your brain? Oh, women were the prize for you! Money gets women, cards and dice Get money, and ill-luck gets just The copper couch and one clear nice Cool squirt of water o’er your bust, The right thing to extinguish lust!
It’s wiser being good than bad; It’s safer being meek than fierce: It’s fitter being sane than mad. My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; That, after Last, returns the First, Though a wide compass round be fetched; That what began best, can’t end worst, Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.
Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith, “A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”
-- St. 1. Grow old along with me!: I understand that the aged Rabbi is addressing some young friend. The best is yet to be, the last of life:
“By the spirit, when age shall o’ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy More indeed, than at first when, unconscious, the life of a boy.” --‘Saul’, 162, 163.
Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, “Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?” Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, “Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!”
Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth’s brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.
-- St. 2, 3. The construction is, I do not remonstrate that youth, amassing flowers, sighed, Which rose make ours, which lily leave, etc., nor that, admiring stars, it (youth) yearned, etc.
Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?