That Man may madly forfeit Heaven’s pavilions,
To hug his darling trammels:—Yet the soul,
The startled soul, upbounding from the mire
Of earthliness, and all alive with fears,
Unsmothered by the lethargy of years
Whose dates are blanks, at moments will inquire,
“And whither tends this wasting struggle? Hath
The living universe no loftier path
Than that we toil on ever? Must the eye
Of Hope but light a desert? Shall the high