But
on her forehead sits a fire:
She sets her forward countenance
And leaps into the future chance,
Submitting
all things to desire.
Half-grown
as yet, a child, and vain–
She cannot fight the fear of death.
What is she, cut from love and faith,
But
some wild Pallas from the brain
Of
Demons? fiery-hot to burst
All barriers in her onward race
For power. Let her know her place;
She
is the second, not the first.
A
higher hand must make her mild,
If all be not in vain; and guide
Her footsteps, moving side by side
With
wisdom, like the younger child:
For
she is earthly of the mind,
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul.
O, friend, who camest to thy goal
So
early, leaving me behind,
I
would the great world grew like thee,
Who grewest not alone in power
And knowledge, but by year and hour
In
reverence and in charity.