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Full fifty years my span of life hath run,

Unless I err, and seven revolving years

Have further sped while I the sun enjoy.

Yet now the end draws nigh, and by God's will

Old age's bound is reached: how have I spent

And with what fruit so wide a tract of days?

I wept in boyhood 'neath the sounding rod:

Youth's toga donned, the rhetorician's arts

I plied and with deceitful pleadings sinned:

Anon a wanton life and dalliance gross

(Alas! the recollection stings to shame!)

Fouled and polluted manhood's opening bloom:

And then the forum's strife my restless wits

Enthralled, and the keen lust of victory

Drove me to many a bitterness and fall.

Twice held I in fair cities of renown

The reins of office, and administered

To good men justice and to guilty doom.

At length the Emperor's will beneficent

Exalted me to military power

And to the rank that borders on the throne.

The years are speeding onward, and gray hairs

Of old have mantled o'er my brows

And Salia's consulship from memory dies.

What frost-bound winters since that natal year

Have fled, what vernal suns reclothed

The meads with roses,--this white crown declares.

Yet what avail the prizes or the blows

Of fortune, when the body's spark is quenched

And death annuls whatever state I held?

This sentence I must hear: "Whate'er thou art,

Thy mind hath lost the world it loved: not God's

The things thou soughtest, Whose thou now shalt be."

Yet now, ere hence I pass, my sinning soul

Shall doff its folly and shall praise my Lord

If not by deeds, at least with humble lips.

Let each day link itself with grateful hymns

And every night re-echo songs of God:

Yea, be it mine to fight all heresies,

Unfold the meanings of the Catholic faith,

Trample on Gentile rites, thy gods, O Rome,

Dethrone, the Martyrs laud, th' Apostles sing.

O while such themes my pen and tongue employ,

May death strike off these fetters of the flesh

And bear me whither my last breath shall rise!

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