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 TO LUDOVICO CORNARO 285

��TO LUDOVICO CORNARO.

O thou that for an hundred years

Didst lightly tread the ancestral hall,

Vet sawest thy brethren bathed in tears, Cut down ere ripe, and round thee fall, —

Well didst thou deem long life the measure

Of long enjoyment to the wise, To fools alone devoid of pleasure ;

Thou wouldst not die as the fool dies.

Robbed of thy titles, lands, and health, With man and fortune in disgrace,

In wisdom didst thou seek thy wealth. Thy peace in friendship to thy race.

With thine eleven grandchildren met, Thou couldst at will become the boy ;

And, thine own sorrows to forget, Couldst lose thyself in others' joy, —

Couldst mount thy horse when past fourscore, And climb steep hills, and on dull days

Cheer the long hours with learned lore, Or spend thy wit on tales and plays.

In summer, thou wast friend of flowers, And, when the winter nights grew long.

And music cheered the evening hours, Still clearest was the old man's song.

Thus, while thy calm and thoughtful mind

The ravages of time survived. Three generations of mankind

Dropped round thee, joyless and short-lived.

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