The germ that turns to use young nature’s roses.

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IX.

’Tis thou hast taught me what of truth I know,

Kind debt, that binds me nearer unto thee,

That worth’s best triumph scorns all outward show

And works within its quiet mystery;

That the same virtues walk in various light,

Accomplishing by each their several ends,

That as the sun to day, the moon to night,

This, its pale lustre, that, its ardour lends;

So with each mortal’s differing merits twined,

A separate glory crowns peculiar aims,

And myriad fates, in one deep urn combined,

Stamp, with one issue, more than million claims;

Some only tower, above the rest, supreme,

That such thy lot, methinks, it well would seem.

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