An eye of looking back were well, Or any murmur that would tell Your thoughts, how you were sent And went, To walk with pleasure, not to dwell. These, these are hours by virtue spared Herself, she being her own reward, But she will have you know That though Her sports be soft, her life is hard. You must return unto the hill, And there advance With labour, and inhabit still That height and crown From whence you ever may look down Upon triumphed Chance. She, she it is, in darkness shines. 'Tis she that still herself refines, By her own light, to every eye More seen, more known when vice stands by. And though a stranger here on earth, In heaven she hath her right of birth. There, there is virtue's seat, Strive to keep her your own; 'Tis only she can make you great, Though place here make you known. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT by ALEXANDER POPE UNBELIEVABLE by EDITH GRACE BERKNESS A NEW PILGRIMAGE: 13 by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT SATAN ABSOLVED; A VICTORIAN MYSTERY by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT ON THE MARRIAGE OF THOMAS KILLIGREW & CECILIA CROFTS: MORNING STORMY by THOMAS CAREW |