EACH owns some secret law;--the flowers that flourish
Bloom in their season, in their season die;
Dews flow beneath, their feeble strength to nourish,
The wind, Earth's angels, life's sweet breath supply.
As in the wondrous world of faultless Nature,
So in the moral universe of man,
Given for the spirit's every form and feature,
Are powers fulfilling its immortal plan.
Whether its aim be fixed on seeking Pleasure,
Whilst draining deep her falsely-sparkling bowl,
Or in the light of Love be sought the treasure
Whose worth may satisfy the craving soul;
Whether it court the applause of listening nations,
And toil, with earnest energy, for fame,
Or seek with nobler hopes those elevations,
Whence from its God with spotless robes it came:
All help to lead it on; to Truth or Error,
Darkness or Light, as its own pathway lies;
Here, seeming seraphs, hidden shapes of terror,
There, darksome shadows, angels in disguise.
Behold yon miser bend, with palsied fingers,
O'er the rich gold around him glittering piled,
How, with a father's care, he tireless lingers
By life's all-precious hope, his darling--child.
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