Felix
There is an ancient moral
Whose pith I thus convey, —
Who slumbers on his laurel
Was vanquished yesterday.
Though greener fields may brighten
Than yet the sun hath known;
Though whiter harvests whiten
Than ever seed were sown;
Above the breast of summer
The thunder-bolt may burst;
And around the sheaves of harvest
The winter gales are nursed.
Life's loftiest triumph trembles
Beneath the lightest march, —
Till Death, that carves the keystone,
Writes Felix on the arch.
Whose pith I thus convey, —
Who slumbers on his laurel
Was vanquished yesterday.
Though greener fields may brighten
Than yet the sun hath known;
Though whiter harvests whiten
Than ever seed were sown;
Above the breast of summer
The thunder-bolt may burst;
And around the sheaves of harvest
The winter gales are nursed.
Life's loftiest triumph trembles
Beneath the lightest march, —
Till Death, that carves the keystone,
Writes Felix on the arch.
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