hair,
And there a grain; and, at his journey's end,
He stands another man than he who late
Set out upon that journey. And his loss
Is twofold--for the world has passed him by
In scorn, and his own self-respect is dead.
Naught have I done that in itself was bad,
Yet have had evil hopes, bad wishes, ay,
Unholy aspirations; and have stood
And looked in silence, while another sinned;
Or here have willed no evil, yet joined hands
With sin, forgetful how one wicked deed
Begets another.--Now at last I stand,
A sea of evils breaking all about,
And cannot say, "My hand hath done no wrong!"--
O happy Youth, couldst thou forever stay!
O joyous Fancy, blest Forgetfulness,
Time when each moment cradles some great deed
And buries it! How, in a swelling tide
Of high adventure, I disported me,
Cleaving the mighty waves with stalwart breast!
But manhood comes, with slow and sober steps;
And Fancy flees away, while naked Truth
Creeps soft to fill its place and brood upon
Full many a care. No more the present seems
A fair tree, laden down with luscious fruits,
'Neath whose cool shadows rest and joy are found,
But is become a tiny seedling which,
When buried in the earth, will sprout and bud
And bloom, and bear a future of its own.
What shall thy task in life be? Where thy home?
What of thy wife and babes? What thine own fate,
And theirs?--Such constant musings tantalize
the soul. [_He seats himself._]

CREUSA. What should'st thou care for such? 'Tis all decreed,
All ordered for thee.

JASON. Ordered? Ay, as when
Over the threshold one thrusts forth a bowl
Of broken meats, to feed some begging wretch!
I am Prince Jason. Spells not that enough
Of sorrow? Must I ever henceforth sit
Meek at some stranger's board, or beg my way,
My little babes about me, praying pity
From each I meet? My sire was once a king,
And so am I; yet who would care to boast
He is like Jason? Still-