Page:Enoch Arden, etc - Tennyson - 1864.djvu/90

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74
AYLMER’S FIELD.
Thro' which a few, by wit or fortune led,May beat a pathway out to wealth and fame.The jests, that flash'd about the pleader's room,Lightning of the hour, the pun, the scurrilous tale,—Old scandals buried now seven decads deepIn other scandals that have lived and died,And left the living scandal that shall die—Were dead to him already; bent as he wasTo make disproof of scorn, and strong in hopes,And prodigal of all brain-labour he,Charier of sleep, and wine and exercise,Except when for a breathing-while at eve,Some niggard fraction of an hour, he ranBeside the river-bank: and then indeedHarder the times were, and the hands of powerWere bloodier, and the according hearts of menSeem'd harder too; but the soft river-breeze,Which fann'd the gardens of that rival roseYet fragrant in a heart rememberingHis former talks with Edith, on him breathed
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