When conflict’s bitter strain to its decision
At last attaineth, then the best physician
Is mirth, to close the overtasking day.
And song, the Muses’ child inspired, can lay
On the heart’s wounds her magic hands of healing.
Not steaming baths so softly charm away
The ache of toil, as words of praise outpealing
In unison with the lyre. Man’s speech shall long
Outlast his deeds, what words soe’er the tongue
Hath drawn up, by the Graces’ kind control,
From wells of inspiration in the soul.