Thought.
You think me in danger of becoming an unhappy being, from my turn of thought and taste. Young as I am, I feel the truth of your observation. I differ from those I converse with, they mortify and disappoint me, I draw back with disgust; I raise wonder, and perhaps hatred also. Sometimes my reserve is construed into pride and affectation. When I am talkative my ideas are laughed at, as inconsistent with the opinions of the world; my conduct and character are not understood, and I am stigmatized with being romantic, that is, ridiculous. What am I to do? either I must give up the world or my own faculties. Am I born to say, “Yes, certainly,” and “that’s right,” when my conviction impels me to say, “No, I doubt,” and “that’s wrong?”
Providence—Felicaii.
Providence.
Just as a mother, with sweet pious face,
Yearns tow’rds her little children from her seat,
Gives one a kiss, another an embrace,
Takes this upon her knee, that on her feet;
And while from actions, looks, complaints, pretences,
She learns their feeling, and their various will,
To this a look, to that a word dispenses,
And whether stern or smiling, loves them still.
So Providence! for us high, infinite,
Makes our necessities its watchful task;
Hearkens to all our prayers, helps all our wants,
And e’en if it denies what seems our right,
Either denies, because ’twould have us ask,
Or seems but to deny, or in denying, grants.