Valleys and men to middle fortune born,
Not innocent, indeed, yet not forlorn—
Say, what shall calm us, when such guests intrude,
Like comets on the heavenly solitude?
Shall breathless glades, cheered by shy Dian’s horn,
Cold-bubbling springs, or caves! Not so! The soul
Breasts her own griefs; and, urged too fiercely, says:
‘Why tremble? True, the nobleness of man
May be by man effaced; man can control
To pain, to death, the bent of his own days.