⁠Heavenly knowledge will not lead;
Wisdom hides from them her treasure,
⁠Virtue bids them evil-speed!

'Vainly may their hearts repenting,
⁠Seek for aid in future years;
Wisdom, scorned, knows no relenting;
⁠Virtue is not won by fears.'

Thus spake the ice-blooded elder gray;
The young man scoffed as he turned away,
Turned to the call of a sweet lute's measure,
Waked by the lightsome touch of pleasure:
Had he ne'er met a gentler teacher,
Woe had been wrought by that pitiless preacher.