At still-confiding, still-confounded, man,
Confiding, though confounded; hoping on,
Untaught by trial, unconvinced by proof,
And ever looking for the never seen.
Life to the last, like harden’d felons, lies;
Nor owns itself a cheat, till it expires. 130
Its little joys go out by one and one,
And leave poor man, at length, in perfect night;
Night darker, than what, now, involves the pole.
O Thou, who dost permit these ills to fall,