If such it may be called—which ever plays
Like autumn sunshine on the countenance,
Where pure benevolence and holy hopes
Possess the heart. It seems a thing of heaven,
And hath on earth no antitype but when
Some lovely infant, in life’s early bloom,
And calm sweet innocence, in slumber lies,
And smiles amidst its sleep. Yet firmness too,
And dauntless energy, possess his soul
With mighty perseverance. Naught can turn