the men of old

The Men of OldLord Houghton(1809-85)I know not that the men of oldWere better than men now,Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,Of more ingenuous brow:I heed not those who pipe for forceA ghost of time to raise,As if they thus could check the courseOf these appointed days.Still it is true, and over true,That i delight to closeThis book of self-wise and new,And let my thoughts reposeOn all that humble happiness,The world has since forgone,The daylight of contentednessThat on those faces shone!With rights, tho' not too closely scanned,Enjoyed as far as known,With will by no reverse unmanned,With pulse of every tone,They from today and from tonight Expected nothing more, Than yesterday and yesternightHad proffered them before.To them was life a simple artOf duties to be done,A game where each man took his part,A race where all must run;A battle whose great scheme and scopeThey little cared to know,Content as men at arms to copeEach with his fronting foe.Man now his Virtue's diademPuts on and proudly wears;Great thoughts, great feelings, come to them,like instincts, unawares:Blending their souls' sublimest needsWith tasks of every day,They went about their gravest deeds,As noble boys at play-And what if Nature's fearful woundsThey did not probe and bare,For that their sprirts never swoonedTo watch the misery there,-For that their love but flowed more fast,The charities more free,Not conscious what mere drops they castInto the evil sea.A man's best things are nearest him,Lie close about his feet,It is the distant and the dimThat we are sick to greet:For flowers that grow our hand beneathWe struggle and aspire,Our hearts must die except they breatheThe air of fresh Desire.Yet, brothers who up Reason's hillAdvance with hopeful cheer,-O! loiter not, those heights are chill,As chill as they are clear;And still restrain your haughty gaze,The loftier that ye goRemembering distance leaves a hazeOn all that lies below.