And so disturb the present calm repose?
He who in search of future trouble goes,
Will find it near at hand—even at his side;
Imagined evils are the worst of foes;
More dang’rous they than sorrow’s sudden tide,
Which flows upon the soul, but does not there abide.
XVIII.
Man is a compound of strange mysteries,
Which to unravel needs almighty skill;
The soul, enchain’d by unknown sympathies,