CONTINUED

Yet, when I muse on what life is, I seem

Rather to patience prompted, than that proud

Prospect of hope which France proclaims so loud —

France, famed in all great arts, in none supreme;

Seeing this vale, this earth, whereon we dream,

Is on all sides o'ershadow' d by the high

Uno'erleap' d Mountains of Necessity,

Sparing us narrower margin than we deem.

Nor will that day dawn at a human nod,

When, bursting through the network superposed

By selfish occupation — plot and plan,

Lust, avarice, envy — liberated man,

All difference with his fellow-mortal closed,

Shall be left standing face to face with God.