Horace's Philosophy (Od. Iii. 29.) Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

Wisely for us within night's sable veil
God hides the future; and, if men turn pale
For dread distrusting, laughs their fear to scorn.
For thee, the present calmly order well:
All else as on a river's tide is borne,
Now flowing peaceful to the Tuscan sea
Down the mid-channel on a gentle swell,
Now, as the hoarse fierce mandate of the flood
Stirs up the quiet stream, time-eaten rocks
Go hurrying down, with houses, herds and flocks,
And echoes from the mountain and the wood.

He stands alone glad self-possess'd and free,
Who grateful for to-day can say, I live;
To-morrow let my Father take or give:
As He may will, not I - with dark or light
Let God ordain the morrow, noon or night.
He, even He, can never render vain
The past behind me; nor bring back again
What any transient hour has once made fact.
Fortune, rejoicing in each cruel act,
And playing frowardly a saucy game,
Dispenses changeful and uncertain fame,
Now kind to me, and now to some beside.
I praise her here; but if it should betide
She spreads her wings for flight, I hold no more
The good she gave, but in mine honest worth
Clad like a man, go honourably forth
To seek the undowried portion of the poor.