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Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem

Rather to patience prompted, than that proud

Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud—

France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme;

Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream,

Is on all sides o’ershadowed by the high

Uno’erleaped mountains of necessity,

Sparing us narrower margin than we deem.

Nor will that day dawn at a human nod,

When, bursting through the network superposed

By selfish occupation—plot and plan,

Lust, avarice, envy—liberated man,

All difference with his fellow-mortal closed,

Shall be left standing face to face with God.