The time you won your town the race To-day, the road all runners come, Smart lad, to slip betimes[2]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0away Eyes the shady night has shut Now you will not swell the rout So set, before the echoes fade, And round that early-laurelled head \u20141896<\/p>\n
\nWe chaired[1]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0you through the market-place;
\nMan and boy stood cheering by,
\nAnd home we brought you shoulder-high.<\/p>\n
\nShoulder-high we bring you home,
\nAnd set you at your threshold down,
\nTownsman of a stiller town.<\/p>\n
\nFrom fields where glory does not stay,
\nAnd early though the laurel[3]<\/sup><\/a>\u00a0grows
\nIt withers quicker than the rose.<\/p>\n
\nCannot see the record cut[4]<\/sup><\/a>,
\nAnd silence sounds no worse than cheers
\nAfter earth has stopped the ears:<\/p>\n
\nOf lads that wore their honours out,
\nRunners whom renown outran
\nAnd the name died before the man.<\/p>\n
\nThe fleet foot on the sill of shade,
\nAnd hold to the low lintel up
\nThe still-defended challenge-cup.<\/p>\n
\nWill flock to gaze the strengthless dead,
\nAnd find unwithered on its curls
\nThe garland briefer than a girl’s.<\/p>\n