And yet, the theme--the heart! strange thing, And worthy of a nobler string! Varied as is a zephyr’s wing The lyre should be, That sings as ever lyre should sing, O, heart! of thee. Thine are the thoughts that bring and bless, Thine are the feelings that distress, Thine are the passions that oppress And wake our fears, Man’s curse, and yet man’s happiness-- Man’s joys and tears. And wonderful thy power that flings O’er all, its moods and colorings, Turns joy to gloom--gives grief the wings Of Fays that, free, Revel about the forest springs, Or haunted tree. The light--when morn and music come, The bird--within its forest home, The house-bee with its rolling drum, Aye! and each flower, And winds, and woods, and waters dumb-- These by thy power, Become distinct and separate images, Link’d to the mind by closest ties-- A treasure-house where gather’d lies Food for long years, When after life the spirit tries With toils and tears. And thus, insensibly, we feel A soothing passion o’er us steal, Binding for aye, for “wo and weal” Our souls to Nature, Till, like a mirror, they reveal Her ev’ry feature. And then, when comes adversity, And loves grow cold, and friendships die, And aches the heart, and clouds thy eye, Shadows of pain-- The mind can on itself rely, And live again. And thus--above earth’s petty things, Its gorgeous gauds, and glitterings, Its camps, and courts, and crowds, and kings, Castle and hall-- The mind can ruffle its proud wings And scout them all. Grandeur and greatness--what are they! Playthings for fools: the king to day, To morrow, is a lump of clay; And yet, elate, We worry through Life’s little way-- To rot in state. And what is fame? Ask him who lies Where cool Cephissus winding hies; Ask him who shook Rome’s destinies-- Shatter’d her state! There’s not a dungeon wretch that dies, But is as great. What’s the world’s pride! What it _hath_ been-- A thing that’s groveling and unclean-- A spur to lust--a cloak of sin-- Seemingly fair; Yet when the damp grave locks us in, How _mean_ we are. What’s the world’s love! An empty boon, Witness it, Bard of “Bonny doon.” Witness it, He with “Sandal shoon,” And Abbotsford-- A light burnt to its socket, soon A quip--a word. And then, as seeks the wounded bird The deepest shades to moan unheard, The heart turns from each friendly word, And comfort flies-- Feels the full curse of “hope deferred,” Despairs, and dies.