The infant rules by cries and tears—
The maiden, with her sunny eyes—
The miser, with the hoard of years—
The monarch, with his clanking ties.
To me the will—the power—were given.
O'er plaything man to weave my spell,
And if I bore him up to heaven,
'Twas but to hurl him down to hell.
And if I chose upon the rack
Of doubt to stretch the tortured mind,