And manhood now—and loneliness— With, oh! how few to love and bless, Save those, who, in their dear duresse, Look down from heaven’s high towers: The stately sire, the gentle dame, The maid who first awoke the flame, That gave to both a mutual claim, As fresh and frail as flowers!— And all those dearest buds of bloom, That simply sought on earth a tomb, From birth to death, with rapid doom, A bird-flight winged for fate: How thick the shafts, how sure the aim! What other passion wouldst thou tame, O! Time, within this heart of flame, Elastic, not elate? VI. Is’t pride?—methinks ’tis joy to bend; My foe—he can no more offend; My friend is false—I love my friend; I love my foeman, too. ’Tis man I love—nor him alone— The brute, the bird—its joy or moan Not heedless to my heart hath gone— I feel with all I view. Wouldst have me worthy?—make me so; But spare on other hearts the blow; Spare, from the cruel pang, the wo, The innocent, the bright! On me thy vengeance!—’Tis my crime That needs the scourge, and, in my prime, ’Twere fruitful of improving time, Thy hand should not be light. VII. I bend me willing to thy thrall, Whate’er thy doom, will bear it all— Drink of the bitter cup of gall, Nor once complain of thee! Will poverty avail to chide, Or sickness bend the soul of pride, Or social scorn, still evil-eyed— Have, then, thy will of me! But spare the woman and the child; Let me not see their features mild, Distorted—hear their accents wild, In agonizing pain: Too much of this! I thought me sure. In frequent pang and loss before; I still have something to endure— And tremble, and—refrain! VIII. On every shore they watch thy wing— To some the winter, some the spring, Thou bring’st, or yet art doomed to bring. In rapid—rolling years: How many seek thee, smiling now, Who soon shall look with clouded brow, Heart filled with bitter doubt and wo, And eyes with gathering tears! But late, they fancied—life’s parade Still moving on—that not a shade Thou flung’st on bower and sunny glade, In which they took delight: Sharp satirist! methinks I see Thy glance in sternest mockery— They little think, not seeing thee, How fatal is thy flight; What feathers grow beneath thy wing— What darts—how poisoned—from what spring Of torture—and how swift the sting— How swift and sure the blight! IX.