Of Fortune’s ladder, that no oasis
Amid the desert of my heart upglows
Above the sands and sallow cypresses,
Cheering the weary pilgrim as he goes;
Not all the fires that rend volcanic wombs
Can kill this one green spot that ’mid my heart-waste blooms.
II.—JOYS OF INTELLECTUAL EMPLOYMENT.
’Tis true, I’m poor in what the world calls bliss;
’Tis true, I have known many wounds of pride,
With which a weaker nature might have died.