[323] 24

COME, my soul, arrange the banquet,

Set the candles on;

Drain a cup or two in memory

Of the dead and gone.

Prize the passing hour and ransack

All the wealth of life;

Watch and, while the bulbuls slumber,

Pluck the roses rife.

Peck not humbly like a captive

At thy dole of grain;

Boldly snatch the choicest morsels

From the fire of pain.

Let no phantom dread appal thee—

’Tis a passing gleam:

Life’s severest trials are but

Ripples on a stream.

Point not thou disdainful fingers

At the poor and low;

Rather take for shining planets

Sparks that flash and go.

Fortune ever changes. Dread not

Fortune’s ban and bane;

All the thorny growth of trouble

Is a mirage vain.

With a daring brow encounter

Every ill you meet;

Grapple boldly with each sorrow,

Dream not of defeat.