142
��INTRODUCTION
��which make early life impotent and unhappy, and later years regretful.
This brings me to a point where, as paper begins to fail, I think I can condense what more I would say, and more agreeably, into verse, unless I should fail in making the whole composition as happy as the stanza which now occurs to me. Of course, I shall hardly expect in a rough draft the finish of which the idea is susceptible.
Planter of grief ! why ceaseless tell
The woes that make thee weep ? Ourselves create our heaven and hell ;
'Tis as we sow we reap.
Make not this world as sad as night,
In hope of future bliss ; Him best a better will delight
Who makes the best of this.
From yonder rose all blushing red,
From yonder sky so blue, No real tints their radiance shed : Our eyes create the hue.
So, as the hours fly on, they cast
Few joys, few griefs behind ; They but reflect, while fluttering past.
The colors of the mind.
Canst thou no sorrow, then, relieve,
No happiness enhance, No mind from error undeceive,
No germs of truth advance ?
Whose cares are these with calm delight
May ponder on the past, And still escape the dreaded night
Of dotngc at the last.
�� �
