There,—while thou art quailing, or sullenly expecting to be nothing,—
There,—is found my gain; I triumph, where thou tremblest.
Grant all my solace is a lie, yet it is a fountain of delight,
A spice in every pleasure, and a balm for every pain:
O precious wise delusion, scattering both misery and sin,—
O vile and silly truth, depraving while it curseth!
Darkling child of knowledge, commune with Socrates and Cicero,
They had no prejudice of birth, no dull parental warpings;
See, those lustrous minds anticipate the dawning day,—
Whilst thou, poor mole, art burrowing back to darkness from the light.