Man receiveth as a cup, but Wisdom is the river.
Moreover, for this fillagree of fancy, this Oriental garnish of similitude,
Alas, the world is old,—and all things old within it:
I walk a trodden path, I love the good old ways;
Prophets, and priests, and kings have tuned the harp I faintly touch.
Truth, in a garment of the past, is my choice and simple theme;
No truth is new to-day: and the mantle was another's.
Still, there is an insect swarm, the buzzing cloud of imagery,
Mote-like steaming on my sight, and thronging my reluctant mind;
The memories of studious culling, and multiplied analogies of nature,