Enamour'd of all mysteries, in love With doubt itself, and fond to disbelieve, We ask not, "if realities be real?" With Plato, or with Berkeley; but we know Life comes not of itself, and what hath life,-- However insignificant it seem To us, whose noblest standard is ourselves,-- Hath been by the Almighty's finger touch'd, Or ne'er had been at all--it must be so. Therefore 'tis by comparison alone That things seem great or small; and noblest they Whose sympathies, with a capacious range, Would own no limit to their fond embrace. Yea, there, as in all else, doth Duty dwell With happiness: for far the happiest he, Who through the roughnesses of life preserves His boyish feelings, and who sees the world, Not as it is in cold reality, A motley scene of struggle and of strife, But tinted with the glow of bright romance: For him the morning has its star; the sun, Rising or setting, fires for him the clouds With glory; flowers for him have tales, Like those which, for a thousand nights and one, Enchained the East; each season as it rolls Strikes in his bosom its peculiar chord, Yet each alike harmonious, to a heart That vibrates ever in sweet unison: Each scene hath its own influence, nor less The frost that mimics each on pool or pane: Delight flows in alike from calm or storm: Delight flows in to him from nature's shows Of hill and dale, swift river, or still lake: To him the very winds are musical-- Have harmony AEolian, wild and sweet; The stream sings to its banks, and the wild birds To Echo--viewless tell-tale of the rocks-- Who in the wantonness of love responds.