THE SOLITARY MAN 317
Each hath a destined lot, By self determined not, — The base oft born to rule a nation, The princely soul to humble station ; The king himself may die at last a boor. The wise philosopher finds nothing sure, Save a calm, steadfast mind, to the upright and pure.
Some, born to high estate, Have been by unkind Fate So cramped that spiders, toads, and flies, Grew dear companions in their eyes. There have been men who, made with healthy sight, Have had their day so long obscured by night, That they have learned at last in darkness to delight.
There have been men sincere Whose lot was so severe, That they have lost that joy in others We feel for parents, friends, and brothers, But yet with loathsome things delighted grew ; For love is still life's want, as Plutarch knew. Who said, they seek the false who have not found the true."
Yet he who dog or cat Can love loves God in that. 'Tis a good shepherd loves his fold ; Hypocrisy alone is cold, And who shut out from man his life hath spent. Yet to his herds hath been benevolent, Ejijoys, though in a low degree, God's own content
How much more fool than thou
Yon wight with wrinkled brow, Who to all science makes pretension, Yet love's blest art of self-extension
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