While fear, foes, friends, and angry Fate,
And all that wreck our mortal state
Shall pass, like motes i' the sun.
"In his fine frame the throstle feels
The music that his note reveals;
And spite of shafts and nets,
How better is the dying bird
Than some dumb stone that ne'er was heard,
That arrow never threats?
"Disdaining man, the mountains rise;