What toils and hardships oft confront man’s sight,
When first ascending fame’s immortal height:
What cares, vexations, worriments prevail,
What deep-laid plans, repeated efforts, fail;
Yet who would dwell in hermit den, obscure,
To shun the toils that hero-gods endure!
Bestir thyself, O man, for soon—too soon,
As youth recedes, shall fade life’s golden noon!
If thou wouldst make thyself undying name,
Direct thy efforts to one worthy aim;
Let each exertion then be wrought with zeal,
Nor faint if woe come where thou look’st for weal;
But toil thou on, nor fear the world’s dark frown,
Till firm upon the summit of renown.
Whatever good, perchance, thy toils, may greet,
Lose not thyself in folly’s vain conceit:
False pride to lowest degradation tends—
It leads to vice and vice to crime descends;
As tiny rills, that from the mountain flow,
Pursue their course to larger streams below,
Till seas are joined where mighty billows roll,
So pride goes onward till it wrecks the soul;
Thus by degrees the downward course begins,
And greatest evils rise from little sins.
Nor seek thy fame ’mid pompous scenes of art,
Where vice and folly oft inure the heart:
’Tis Right eternal kindles honor’s flame,
And crowns Man’s efforts with immortal Fame.