I.

O H , fair ideals of those far-off days,
When life was promise, — in what mournful guise
They front us now! We meant to be so wise,
So good, so great! What eager, brave essays
To lift our lives above the common ways
And make them prodigal of all that lies
In noble, full achievement! Still the prize
Receded ever, ever, and the praise
Rang hollow. Ah, how impotent appears
Human ambition, since, who most attains,
Misses the goal. From every height he gains,
Ever a loftier its crest uprears;
While, still, the unattainable remains,
A baffling dream to vex his human years.

II.

Before a picture, fruit of his young skill,
Stood an old painter, lost in absent thought,
Till, as the saddening spell within him wrought,
" Alas, " he cried, " that Age cannot fulfil
What Youth did prophesy, that yet so ill
Performance waits on Promise! " He had sought —
Ay, and had found it, — fame by genius bought
And high endeavor. Whispers which distil
That subtle, sweet elixir men call praise,
Had been his daily dole from bearded lip
And mouth of beauty: he had dared to sip
The siren draught. Was this the end, to gaze
On the bright promise of his youth, as yet
But half redeemed, and life's sun nearly set?