INTEGER VITAE.
LEFT to himself, the laggard lingers long : He soothes his life with somnolence or song Or anything that helps him to forget; He will not do the deed—not yet, not yet!
But, if an impulse come, a new wave sweep Across the sordid shallows of his sleep, Fulfilling him with desperate desire, Then, he o'erilows ; his ignominious ire Foams into action, and with froth and fume He hurries to the irrevocable doom That shall make known his honour or his shame And give him all he cares to have—a name.
Not so the man who labours in his lot With strenuous endeavour, thinking not Of name or fame or fortune, toward some goal Meet for a manly and a resolute soul.
Because it is not selfish : him, no fears Of men's disdain or women's wily tears Can sever from his seeking of the right, Though it be far, though it be out of sight.
Found or not found, he knows the goal is there— Firm in its place, accessible and fair : He may not reach it, but his faithful feet
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