the gods bestowed
    The priceless gift of sympathy, and they,
    Though knowing not themselves, yet understand. 
    So guard the fragile fabric rolled away
    In the sweet-scented chests of memory,
    Careful lest one uncomprehending soul
    Should, thoughtless, rend the filmy texture frail
    Into a thousand fragments, and destroy
    The precious relic of the golden dawn
    Of life, when all the unknown future lay
    Bathed in unending sunlight, and the heights
    Of manhood, veiled in distant purple haze,
    Offered ten thousand chances of success. 
    But why the future, when the present seemed
    A flower-decked meadow in eternal spring? 
    When every woodland glade its secrets told
    To us, and us alone.  The grown-up eye
    Saw sun-flecked oaks, and tinkling, fern-fringed stream,
    Nor knew that ’neath their shade most doughty Knights
    Daily rode forth to deeds of chivalry;
    And ruthless ruffians waged relentless war
    On those who strayed (without the Talisman
    Which turned their fury into impotence)
    Into those leafy depths nor dreamed there lurked
    Concealed amidst the bosky dells unseen,
    Grim dragons spouting instant death; nor feared
    The placid lake, along whose reed-fringed shore
    Bold Buccaneers swooped down upon their prey. 
    Which things were hidden from maturer eyes. 
    To those who breathed the freshness of the morn,
    Endless romance; to others, common things. 
    For to the Child is given to spin a web
    Of golden glamour o’er the everyday.

    Happy is he who can, in spite of years,
    Retain at times the spirit of the Child.”

My own personal ambition at that period was a modest one.  My mother always drove out in Dublin in a carriage-and-four, with postilions and two out-riders.  We had always used black carriage-horses, and East, the well-known job-master, had provided us for Dublin with twenty-two splendid blacks, all perfect matches.  Our family colour being crimson, the crimson barouche, with the six blacks and our own black and crimson liveries, made a very smart turn-out indeed.  O’Connor, the wheeler-postilion, a tiny little wizened elderly man, took charge of the carriage, and directed the outriders at turnings by a code of sharp whistles.  It was my consuming ambition to ride leader-postilion to my mother’s carriage, and above all to wear the big silver coat-of-arms our postilions had strapped to the left sleeves of their short jackets on a broad crimson band.  I went to O’Connor in the stable-yard, and consulted him as to my chance of obtaining the coveted berth.  O’Connor was distinctly encouraging.  He thought nine rather young for a postilion, but when I had grown a little, and had gained more experience, he saw no insuperable objections to my obtaining the post.  The leader-postilion was O’Connor’s nephew, a smart-looking, light-built boy of seventeen,