His best endeavours are like little dams
Built ’gainst the ocean, on a sinking shore.
Nature asserts her force—and the wise man
Blames not himself for his defeat. For me,
Much as my soul is grieved, ay, and my pride
Wounded—tho’ yet, I thank philosophy,
I can be glad for that,—my hopes—for this
I mourn—my hopes blasted; yet, hear me say,
I take unto myself no self-reproach,
Nay, not a tittle of the part of mischief