There long he wandered, without aim or plan, Till _disappointment_ whispered, _Act as man!_ But though it cool the fever of the brain, And shake, untaught, presumption's idle reign, Bring folly to its level, and bid hope Before the threshold of attainment stop, Still--when its blastings thwart our every scheme, When humblest wishes seem an idle dream, And the bare bread of life is half denied-- Such disappointments humble not our pride; But do they change the temper of the soul, Change every word and action, and enrol The nobler mind with things of basest name-- With idleness, dishonesty, and shame! It hath its bounds, and thus far it is well To check presumption--visions wild to quell; Then 'tis the chastening of a father's hand-- All wholesome, all expedient. But to stand Writhing beneath the unsparing lash, and be Trampled on veriest earth, while misery Stems the young blood, or makes it freeze with care, And on the tearless eyeballs writes, _Despair!_ Oh! this is terrible!--and it doth throw Upon the brow such early marks of woe, That men seem old ere they have well been young; Their fond hopes perish, and their hearts are wrung With such dark feelings--misanthropic gloom, Spite of their natures, haunts them to the tomb. XVIII. Now, Edmund 'midst the bustling throng appears One old in wretchedness, though young in years; For he had struggled with an angry world, Had felt misfortune's billows o'er him hurled, And strove against its tide--where wave meets wave Like huge leviathans sporting wild, and lave Their mountain breakers round with circling sweep, Till, drawn within the vortex of their deep, The man of ruin struggleth--but in vain; Like dying swimmers who, in breathless pain Despairing, strike at random!--It would be A subject worth the schoolmen's scrutiny, To trace each simple source from whence arose The strong and mingled stream of human woes. But here we may not. It is ours alone To make the lonely wanderer's fortunes known; And now, in plain but faithful colours dressed, To paint the feelings of his hopeless breast. XIX. His withered prospects blacken--wounds await-- The grave grows sunlight to his darker fate. All now is gall and bitterness within, And thoughts, once sternly pure, half yield to sin. His sickened soul, in all its native pride, Swells 'neath the breast that tattered vestments hide Disdained, disdaining; while men flourish, he Still stands a stately though a withered tree. But, Heavens! the agony of the moment when Suspicion stamped the smiles of other men; When friends glanced _doubts_, and proudly prudent grew, His counsellors, and his accusers too! XX.