Or who can tell if Fortune's hour Ah, cold Reality!-in spite Of hopes, and endless chance, And thus I wend upon my ways To watch another morn. Cease, babbler!-let those doubtings cease: SOCIETY. ALAS, we do but act; we are not free; My trammeled spirit strives to break, in vain: How strangely different myself from me! Thoughtful in solitude, serenely blest, Crown'd and enthroned in mental majesty, Equal to all things great, and daring all, I muse of mysteries, and am at rest; But, in the midst, some dull intruded guest Topples me from my heights, holding in thrall With his hard eye the traitor in my breast, That before humbler intellects is cow'd, Silently shrinking from the common crowd, And only with the highest self-possest. ON AN INFANT.* Look on this babe; and let thy pride take heed, Thy pride of manhood, intellect, or fame, That thou despise him not: for he indeed, And such as he, in spirit and heart the same, Are God's own children in that kingdom bright Where purity is praise,-and where before The Father's throne, triumphant evermore, The ministering angels, sons of light, Stand unreproved; because they offer there, Mix'd with the Mediator's hallowing pray'r, The innocence of babes in Christ like this: O guardian Spirit, be my child thy care, Lead him to God, obedience and bliss, To God, O fostering cherub, thine and his ! * William Knighton Tupper, the Author's second son. EPILOGUE. ARE there no sympathies, no loves between us? Hath seem'd self-praise,-doth it indeed demean us The quick spontaneous fire of thoughts and words, Which is my grace and glory to possess. |