Man is no mushroom growth of yesterday.
His roots strike deep into the hallow'd mould
Of the dead centuries; ordinances old
Govern us, whether gladly we obey,
Or vainly struggle to resist their sway:
Our thoughts by ancient thinkers are controll'd,
And many a word in which our thoughts are told
Was coin'd long since in regions far away.
The strong-soul'd nations, destin'd to be great,
Honour their sires and reverence the Past;
They cherish and improve their heritage,
The weak, in blind self-trust or headlong rage,
The olden time's transmitted treasure cast
Behind them, and bemoan their loss too late.