Mere driftwood on a restless wave;
A shuttlecock that's tossed by Fate;
Year follows year into the grave,
Whilst thou dost cry, "Too late! Too late!"
A life that's but a wintry day,
Whilst chilling storms blow thee about;
A tempter thou durst not say nay;
A conscience long since put to rout.
Who gets by play a loser is;
The gambler stakes his very heart;
What's prodigally won's not his;
Who wagers takes the knave's foul part.
Thou shouldst not steal nor covet what
Another hath by labor earned;
No man who hath with wisdom wrought
But this base sport hath ever spurned.
Why haggard thus thy fair, young face
With vigils, passions, aimed at gain?
Is this thy mission in this place--
This idleness which brings disdain?
Be not a weakling, nor of wax;
Let mind be master over thee;
See that its shaping of thy acts
Prepares thee for eternity!
Art thou thy brother's keeper?
Most emphatically, yes, if he be not sufficiently strong to refrain
from doing that which is injurious to himself and those dependent upon
him.