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THE CENTURY OF LIFE
THE FOLLIES OF FATE
Sometimes the gods build up a very man Whom genius, virtue, glory crowd to bless, And Earth with him adorned grows measurcless. Then if death early spoil that noble plan, Ah, blind stupidity of Fate that throws From her brow the jewel, from her breast the rose!
THE SCRIPT OF FATE
When on the desert-bramble’s boughs you find Leafage nor flower, blame not the bounteous Spring! Is it the sun’s fault if the owlet blind Sees not by day so radiant-bright a thing? Though down the rainlark’s throat no swect drops flow, Yet for his falling showers the high cloud praise. What Fate has written in power upon the brow,
Where is the hand so mighty it shall rase?
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