Upon him, as he slept. 

 So as a tree 

 Whose root is by the river's brink, he grew 

 And flourish'd, while the dews like balm-drops hung 

 All night upon his branches. 

 Yet let none 

 Of woman born, presume to build his hopes 

 On the worn cliff of brief prosperity, 

 Or from the present promise, predicate 

 The future joy. The exulting bird that sings 

 Mid the green curtains of its leafy nest 

 His tuneful trust untroubled there to live, 

 And there to die, may meet the archer's shaft 

 When next it spreads the wing. 

 The tempest folds 

 O'er the smooth forehead of the summer noon 

 Its undiscover'd purpose, to emerge 

 Resistless from its armory, and whelm 

 In floods of ruin, ere the day decline. 

 Lightning and sword! 

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