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To know the morrow is conceal'd from man;And if the thought of evening made me start,The sun at setting gladden'd straight my heart.

Earnestly answer'd the son:--"You are wrong, dear-mother, one day isUnlike another. The youth soon ripens into his manhood.Ofttimes he ripens better to action in silence than livingThat tumultuous noisy life which ruins so many.And though silent I have been, and am, a heart has been fashion'dInside my bosom, which hates whatever unfair and unjust is,And I am able right well to discriminate secular matters.Work moreover my arms and my feet has mightily strengthen'd.All that I tell you is true; I boldly venture to say so.And yet, mother, you blame me with reason; you've caught me employingWords that are only half true, and that serve to conceal my true feelings.For I must need confess, it is not the advent of dangerCalls me away from my father's house, nor a resolute purposeUseful to be to my country, and dreaded to be by the foeman.Words alone it was that I utter'd,--words only intendedThose deep feelings to hide, which within my breast are contending.And now leave me, my mother! For as in my bosom I cherishWishes that are but vain, my life will be to no purpose.For I know that the Unit who makes a self-sacrifice, onlyInjures himself, unless all endeavour the Whole to accomplish."