Moreover, for this fillagree of fancy, this Oriental garnish of similitude, Alas, the world is old,--and all things old within it: I walk a trodden path, I love the good old ways; Prophets, and priests, and kings have tuned the harp I faintly touch. Truth, in a garment of the past, is my choice and simple theme; No truth is new to-day: and the mantle was another's. Still, there is an insect swarm, the buzzing cloud of imagery, Mote-like steaming on my sight, and thronging my reluctant mind; The memories of studious culling, and multiplied analogies of nature, Fresh feelings unrepressed, welling from the heart spontaneous, Facts, and comparisons, and meditative atoms, gathered on the heap of combination, Mingle in the fashion of my speech with gossamer dreams of Reverie. I need not beat the underwood for game; my pheasants flock upon the lawn, And gamboling hares disport fearless in my dewy field; I roam no heath-empurpled hills, wearily watching for a covey, But thoughts fly swift to my decoy, eager to be caught; I sit no quiet angler, lingering patiently for sport, But spread my nets for a draught, and take the glittering shoal; I chase no solitary stag, tracking it with breathless toil, But hunt with Aurung-zebe, and spear surrounded thousands. What then,--count ye this a boast?--sweet charity, think it other, For the dog-fish and poisonous ray are captured in the mullet-haul: The crane and the kite are of my thoughts, alike with the partridge and the quail, And unclean meats as of the clean hang upon my Seric shambles. --How saith he? shall a man deceive, dressing up his jackal as a lion? Or colour in staid hues of fact the changing vest of falsehood?-- Brother, unwittingly he may; doubtless, unwillingly he doth: For men are full of fault, and how should he be righteous? Carefully my garden hath been weeded, yet shall it be foul with thistle; My grapery is diligently thinned, and yet many berries will be sour: From my nets have I flung the bad away, to my small skill and caution; Yet may some slimy snake have counted for an eel. The rudder of Man's best hope cannot always steer himself from error; The arrow of Man's straightest aim flieth short of truth. Thus, the confession of sincerity visit not as if it were presumption: Nor own me for a leader, where thy reason is not guide. OF CHEERFULNESS. [Illustration: "T"]