Matthew Arnold — Horatian Echo

Omit, omit, my simple friend, Still to enquire how parties tend, Or what we fix with foreign powers. If France and we are really friends, And what the Russian Czar intends,        &nbspIs no concern of ours. Us not the daily quickening race Of the invading populace Shall draw to swell that shouldering herd. Mourn will we not your closing hour, Ye imbeciles in present power,        &nbspDoom'd, pompous, and absurd! And let us bear, that they debate Of all the engine-work of state, Of commerce, laws, and policy, The secrets of the world's machine, And what the rights of man may mean,        &nbspWith readier tongue than we. Only, that with no finer art They cloak the troubles of the heart With pleasant smile, let us take care; Nor with a lighter hand dispose Fresh garlands of this dewy rose,        &nbspTo crown Eugenia's hair. Of little threads our life is spun, And he spins ill, who misses one. But is thy fair Eugenia cold? Yet Helen had an equal grace, And Juliet's was as fair a face,        &nbspAnd now their years are told. The day approaches, when we must Be crumbling bones and windy dust; And scorn us as our mistress may, Her beauty will no better be Than the poor face she slights in thee,        &nbspWhen dawns that day, that day.