But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, 100 And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part, Filling from time to time his "humourous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her Equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity; Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep 110 Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,-- Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; To whom the grave 120 Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of untam'd pleasures, on thy Being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The Years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 130 Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive!