But, even stooping to thy folly, grant all these hopes are vain; Stultify reason, wrestle against conscience, and wither up the heart: Where is thy vast advantage?--I have all that thou hast, The buoyancy of life as strong, and term of days no shorter; My cup is full with gladness, my griefs are not more galling: And thus, we walk together, even to the gates of death: There, (if not also on my journey, blessing every step, Gladdening with light, and quickening with love, and killing all my cares,) There,--while thou art quailing, or sullenly expecting to be nothing,-- There,--is found my gain; I triumph, where thou tremblest. Grant all my solace is a lie, yet it is a fountain of delight, A spice in every pleasure, and a balm for every pain: O precious wise delusion, scattering both misery and sin,-- O vile and silly truth, depraving while it curseth! Darkling child of knowledge, commune with Socrates and Cicero, They had no prejudice of birth, no dull parental warpings; See, those lustrous minds anticipate the dawning day,-- Whilst thou, poor mole, art burrowing back to darkness from the light. I will not urge a revelation, mercies, miracles, and martyrs, But, after twice a thousand years, go, learn thou of the pagan: It were happier and wiser even among fools, to cling to the shadow of a hope, Than, in the company of sages, to win the substance of despair; But here, the sages hope; despair is with the fools, The base bad hearts, the stolid heads, the sensual and the selfish. And wilt thou, sorry scorner, mock the phrase, despair? Despair for those who die and live,--for me, I live and die: What have I to do with dread?--my taper must go out;-- I nurse no silly hopes, and therefore feel no fears: I am hastening to an end.--O false and feeble answer: For hope is in thee still, and fear, a racking deep anxiety. Erring brother, listen: and take thine answer from the ancients: Consider every end, that it is but the end of a beginning. All things work in circles; weariness induceth unto rest, Rest invigorateth labour, and labour causeth weariness: War produceth peace, and peace is wanton unto war: Light dieth into darkness, and night dawneth into day: The rotting jungle reeds scatter fertility around; The buffalo's dead carcase hath quickened life in millions: The end of toil is gain, the end of gain is pleasure, Pleasure tendeth unto waste, and waste commandeth toil.