Men, who fear no God, trembling at a gipsy's curse,
Men, who jest at revelation, clinging to a madman's prophecy!
There is a pleasing dread in the fashion of all mysteries,
For hope is mixed therein and fear; who shall divine their issues?
Even the orphan, wandering by night, lost on dreary moors,
Is sensible of some vague bliss amidst his shapeless terrors;
The buoyancy of instant expectation, spurring on the mind to venture,
Overbeareth, in its energy, the cramp and the chill of apprehension.
There is a solitary pride, when the heart, in new importance,
Writeth gladly on its archives, the secrets none other men have seen: