Beyond these transient spheres, doth wear a crown
Of earthly hope put on with trembling hand; 110
Nor is least pleased, we trust, when golden beams,
Reflected through the mists of age, from hours
Of innocent delight, remote or recent,
Shoot but a little way—’tis all they can—
Into the doubtful future. Who would keep 115
Power must resolve to cleave to it through life,
Else it deserts him, surely as he lives.
Saints would not grieve nor guardian angels frown