I ask you quietly to swallow
That which your people can't digest.
Keep it intact, if you're disposed,—
But yet hermetically closed;
At home, in God's name, soar and swell,
Not as a public spectacle;
Trust me, the will that won't be bent
Brings its unfailing punishment.
Brand.
Ay, fear of torment, hope of gain,
Are on thy brow the brand of Cain,
Which cries that thou by worldly art
Hast slain the Abel in thy heart!
The Dean.
[To himself.]
Upon my word he calls me "Thou";
That is too much!—
[Aloud.]
I will not now
Prolong our strife, but, to conclude,
Would have it clearly understood,
That if you'd prosper, you must weigh
What land you live in, and what day.
For no man wins the fight with fortune,
But in alliance with his time.
Which of the men who paint and rhyme
Dare fail when social claims importune?
Look at our soldiers! Why, the gleam
Of sabres is become a dream!
And wherefore? Since a law commands:
Postpone thy own need to the Land's!
Let each his own excrescence pare,
Neither uplift him, nor protrude,
But vanish in the multitude.
