Thus far have I proceeded in a theme Renewed with no kind auspices:--to feel We are not what we have been, and to deem We are not what we should be, and to steel The heart against itself; and to conceal, With a proud caution, love or hate, or aught,-- Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,-- Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, Is a stern task of soul:--No matter,--it is taught. CXII. And for these words, thus woven into song, It may be that they are a harmless wile,-- The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile My breast, or that of others, for a while. Fame is the thirst of youth,--but I am not So young as to regard men's frown or smile As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; I stood and stand alone,--remembered or forgot. CXIII. I have not loved the world, nor the world me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee,-- Nor coined my cheek to smiles, nor cried aloud In worship of an echo; in the crowd They could not deem me one of such; I stood Among them, but not of them; in a shroud Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still could, Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued. CXIV. I have not loved the world, nor the world me,-- But let us part fair foes; I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things,--hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the falling: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem,-- That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. CXV. My daughter! with thy name this song begun-- My daughter! with thy name this much shall end-- I see thee not, I hear thee not,--but none Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend To whom the shadows of far years extend: Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, My voice shall with thy future visions blend, And reach into thy heart, when mine is cold,-- A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. CXVI. To aid thy mind's development,--to watch Thy dawn of little joys,--to sit and see Almost thy very growth,--to view thee catch Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee! To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,-- This, it should seem, was not reserved for me Yet this was in my nature:--As it is, I know not what is there, yet something like to this. CXVII.