His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day,
Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below?
—Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray.
Some exile’s, mindful how the past was glad?
Some angel’s, in an alien planet born?
—No exile’s dream was ever half so sad,
Nor any angel’s sorrow so forlorn.
Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh
Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore;
But in disdainful silence turn away,