ODE TO TRUTH 407
And, though 'twere vain to hope mine eyes
Should e'er make out the sense that lies
In thy more secret mysteries,
Yet wilt thou deem he serves thee well
\Vho some few words can faintly spell,
If it so be with cheerful will
And humble heart he seeks thee still.
To him ofttimes the winged hours
Will waft some music from thy bowers.
Or, from thy language heard in part.
Imprint a lesson on his heart.
��O, guide divine, how blest is he,
Who early learns to walk with thee !
Despair no refuge finds with him,
He views unscared Death's visage grim.
His life glides on like some fair river,
Deeper, broader, calmer ever ;
Still fertilizing as it flows.
The winds scarce ruffle its repose.
Him no disasters can appall ;
He feareth not what may befall ;
The heavens and earth to him are musical.
And, if the senses e'er have power
To bind thy votary for an hour,
Folly can never hold him long,
Who the mean joys of feast and song
Hath measured with those rare delights
Wherewith Philosophy invites —
Friends, books, and thought, and all those joys
Which most disdain the haunts of noise.
The rustic cot with gardens neat,
Far from the city's crowded street, —
There, when the day's dull toils are ended,
To be with contemplation friended.
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