A doctrine that on light would draw the shutter,
And close the opening gateways of the morn.
No so; no guiding light would _Punch_ extinguish,
Or chill true champion of the toiling crowd;
But wisdom at its kindliest must distinguish
Between true guides and tricksters false as loud.
The blameless King his headlong knights upbraided
In kindly grief for "following foolish fires,"
False flames that in mere dun marsh-darkness faded,
Leaving lost votaries to its mists and mires;
And here's an _ignis fatuus_, fired by folly,
And moved by violence as fierce as blind;
The gulf before's a bourne most melancholy,
And what of those fast following behind?
Well-meaning hearts, maybe, all expectation
Of glittering gains upon a perilous road,
Stirred by wild whirling words to keen elation,
Pricked on by poverty's imperious goad;
Hoping,--as who of hope shall be forbidden?--
Striving,--as who hath not the right to strive?--
For flaunted gain through perils shrewdly hidden!
Oh, labourers hard in Industry's huge hive,
What wonder, if, ill-paid and tired, you hasten
To follow the loud bauble and the lure,
Or gird at those who your wild hopes would chasten,
Or guide you on a pathway more secure!
And yet beware! No oriflamme of battle
Is that false radiance round yon impish brow.
The jester's bladder-bauble, with its rattle
Of prisoned peas, is not the tow-row-row