Floats o'er the golden promise of the morn.

Hope daily weaves fresh roses for his brow,

Shrouding the grim and ghastly phantom, Death,

Beneath her soft and rainbow-tinted wings.

Ere Care has tainted with her poisonous breath

Life's opening buds, all objects wear to him

A lovely aspect, and he peoples space

With creatures of his own. The glorious forms

Which haunt his solitude, and brightly fill

Imagination's airy hall, atone

For all the faults and follies of his kind.

Nor marvel that he cannot comprehend

The speculative aims of worldly men:

Dearer to him a leaf, or bursting bud,

Culled fresh from Nature's treasury, than all

[Pg 6]

The golden dreams that cheat the care-worn crowd.

His world is all within. He mingles not

In their society; he cannot drudge

To win the wealth they toil to realize.

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