Yet I hear the child of sensibility moaning at the wintry cold, Wherein the mists of selfishness have wrapped the society of men: He grieveth, and hath deep reasons; for falsehood hath wronged his trust, And the breaches in his bleeding heart have been filled with the briars of suspicion. For, alas, how few be friends, of whom charity hath hoped well! How few there be among men who forget themselves for other! Each one seeketh his own, and looketh on his brethren as rivals, Masking envy with friendship, to serve his secret ends. And the world, that corrupteth all good, hath wronged that sacred name, For it calleth any man friend, who is not known for an enemy: And such be as the flies of summer, while plenty sitteth at thy board: But who can wonder at their flight from the cold denials of want? Such be as vultures round a carcase, assembled together for the feast; But a sudden noise scareth them, and forthwith are they specks among the clouds. There be few, O child of sensibility, who deserve to have thy confidence; Yet weep not, for there are some, and such some live for thee: To them is the chilling world a drear and barren scene, And gladly seek they such as thou art, for seldom find they the occasion: For, though no man excludeth himself from the high capability of friendship, Yet verily the man is a marvel whom truth can write a friend. [Illustration: Of Love] Of Love. There is a fragrant blossom, that maketh glad the garden of the heart; Its root lieth deep: it is delicate, yet lasting, as the lilac crocus of autumn: Loneliness and thought are the dews that water it morn and even; Memory and Absence cherish it, as the balmy breathings of the south: Its sun is the brightness of Affection, and it bloometh in the borders of Hope; Its companions are gentle flowers, and the briar withereth by its side. I saw it budding in beauty; I felt the magic of its smile; The violet rejoiced beneath it, the rose stooped down and kissed it; And I thought some cherub had planted there a truant flower of Eden, As a bird bringeth foreign seeds, that they may flourish in a kindly soil. I saw, and asked not its name; I knew no language was so wealthy, Though every heart of every clime findeth its echo within. And yet what shall I say? Is a sordid man capable of Love? Hath a seducer known it? Can an adulterer perceive it? Or he that seeketh strange women, can he feel its purity? Or he that changeth often, can he know its truth? Longing for another's happiness, yet often destroying its own; Chaste, and looking up to God, as the fountain of tenderness and joy: Quiet, yet flowing deep, as the Rhine among rivers; Lasting, and knowing not change--it walketh with Truth and Sincerity.