There is a race of men, who master life, br Their victory being inversely as their strife; br Who capture by refraining from pursuit; br Shake not the bough, yet load their hands with fruit; br The earth's high places who attain to fill, br By most indomitably sitting still. br While others, full upon the fortress hurled, br Lay fiery siege to the embattled world, br Of such rude arts their natures feel no need; br Greatly inert, they lazily succeed; br Find in the golden mean their proper bliss, br And doing nothing, never do amiss; br But lapt in men's good graces live, and die br By all regretted, nobody knows why. br br Cast in this fortunate Olympian mould, br The admirable * * * * behold; br Whom naught could dazzle or mislead, unless br 'Twere the wild light of fatal cautiousness; br Who never takes a step from his own door br But he looks backward ere he looks before. br When once he starts, it were too much to say br He visibly gets farther on his way: br But all allow, he ponders well his course-- br For future uses hoarding present force.