1   ’Tis time the heart should be unmoved,      Since others it hath ceased to move:   Yet, though I cannot be beloved,               Still let me love! 2   My days are in the yellow leaf;      The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;   The worm, the canker, and the grief               Are mine alone! 3   The fire that on my bosom preys      Is lone as some Volcanic isle;   No torch is kindled at its blaze—               A funeral pile. 4   The hope, the fear, the jealous care,      The exalted portion of the pain   And power of love, I cannot share,               But wear the chain. 5   But ’tis not thus—and ’tis not here—      Such thoughts should shake my soul nor now,   Where Glory decks the hero’s bier,               Or binds his brow. 6   The Sword, the Banner, and the Field,      Glory and Greece, around me see!   The Spartan, borne upon his shield,               Was not more free. 7   Awake! (not Greece—she is awake!)      Awake, my spirit! Think through whom   Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,               And then strike home! 8   Tread those reviving passions down,      Unworthy manhood!—unto thee   Indifferent should the smile or frown               Of Beauty be. 9   If thou regret’st thy youth, why live?      The land of honourable death   Is here:—up to the Field, and give               Away thy breath! 10   Seek out—less often sought than found—      A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;   Then look around, and choose thy ground,               And take thy Rest.