True Wisdom

Why break the limits of permitted thoughtTo revel in Elysium? thou who bear'stStill the stern yoke of this unresting life,Its toils, its hazards, and its fears of change?Why hang thy frostwork wreath on Fancy's brow,When Labour warns thee to thy daily task,And Faith doth bid thee gird thyself to runA faithful journey to the gate of Heaven?

Up, 'tis no dreaming-time! awake! awake!For He who sits on the High Judge's seatDoth in his record note each wasted hour,Each idle word. Take heed thy shrinking soulFind not their weight too heavy when it standsAt that dread bar from whence is no appeal.For while we trifle the light sand steals on,Leaving the hour-glass empty. So thy lifeGlideth away. Stamp wisdom on its hours.