Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton (1809–1885)

I KNOW not that the men of old

Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,

Of more ingenuous brow:

I heed not those who pine for force

A ghost of Time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course

Of these appointed days.

Still it is true, and over true,

That I delight to close

This book of life self-wise and new,

And let my thoughts repose

On all that humble happiness

The world has since forgone,

The daylight of contentedness

That on those faces shone.

With rights, tho’ not too closely scann’d,

Enjoy’d as far as known;

With will by no reverse unmann’d,

With pulse of even tone,

They from to-day and from to-night

Expected nothing more

Than yesterday and yesternight

Had proffer’d them before.

To them was Life a simple art

Of duties to be done,

A game where each man took his part,

A race where all must run;

A battle whose great scheme and scope

They little cared to know,

Content as men-at-arms to cope

Each with his fronting foe.

Man now his Virtue’s diadem

Puts on and proudly wears:

Great thoughts, great feelings came to them

Like instincts, unawares.

Blending their souls’ sublimest needs

With tasks of every day,

They went about their gravest deeds

As noble boys at play.