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I know it, yet I repine.

I know it, how time will ravage,

how time will level, and yet

I long with a longing savage,

I regret with a fierce regret....”

We are sorely tired, “we, with our bodies thus weakly, with hearts hard and dangerous.”

“We have suffered and striven

till we have grown reckless of pain,

though feeble of heart, and of brain.”

Who has expressed the malady of our time better? “Our burdens are heavy, our natures weak,” he says again. We cannot escape from them:

“Round about one fiery centre

wayward thoughts like moths revolve;”

We cannot write a description of a horse-race without letting them come in, without calling our description by a name expressive of them—“Ex fumo dare lucem:”

“Till the good is brought forth from evil,

as day is brought forth from night.—

Vain dreams! for our fathers cherished

high hopes in the days that were;

and these men wondered and perished,

nor better than these we fare;

And our due at least is their due,

they fought against odds and fell;

“En avant les enfants perdus!”