Elastic, not elate?
VI.
Is’t pride?—methinks ’tis joy to bend;
My foe—he can no more offend;
My friend is false—I love my friend;
I love my foeman, too.
’Tis man I love—nor him alone—
The brute, the bird—its joy or moan
Not heedless to my heart hath gone—
I feel with all I view.