Forty Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

Ah, poor youth! in pitiful truth,
Thy pride must feel a fall, poor youth!
What thou shalt be well have I seen,--
Thou shalt be only what others have been.

Haply, within a few swift years,
A mind bow'd down with troubles and fears,
The commonest drudge of men and things,
Instead of your -- conquering heroes and kings;

Haply, to follies an early wreck,--
For the cloud of presumption is now like a speck,
And with a whelming, sudden sweep
The storm of temptation roars over the deep;

Lower the sails of pride, rash youth,--
Stand to the lowly tiller of truth;
Quick, or your limber bark shall be
The sport of the winds on a stormy sea!

Care and peril in lieu of joy,--
Guilt and dread may be thine, proud boy:
Lo, thy mantling chalice of life
Is foaming with sorrow, and sickness, and strife;

Cheated by pleasure, and sated with pain,--
Watching for honour, and watching in vain,--
Aching in heart, and ailing in head,
Wearily earning daily bread.

-- It is well. I discern a tear on thy cheek:
It is well,-- thou art humbled, and silent, and meek:
Now,-- courage again! and, with peril to cope,
Gird thee with vigour, and helm thee with hope!

For life, good youth, hath never an ill
Which hope cannot scatter, and faith cannot kill;
And stubborn realities never shall bind
The free-spreading wings of a cheerful mind.