Would’st thou know, stranger, wherefore the vain cares,
And envious strifes, and ills of this sad world
Vex not my thoughts serene,
Nor fright my peace of soul?
Wherefore its wild commotions fret me not,
And the vain pageants of its summer smile,
(More fleeting than the light)
Nor dazzle, nor distract?
It is not that a swelling pride doth lift
My spirit ’bove the reach of changeful Fate,
Or shield me from the ills
To mortal lot assigned;
Or teach me with a scorn unwise to turn
From good on all bestowed, the boon of Heaven:—
’Tis not that spells I bear
By stern cold Reason wrought:—
But in my spirit’s inmost treasure-house
There is a blessed world, from evil free,
Nor wearying cares come nigh
The chambers of the soul!
In this fair home hath Thought her palace reared,
And planted living flowers; there flow the springs
Of Fancy, pure and bright,
In sweet rejoicing streams.
There bends the golden heaven of Poesy,
With gladdening sunlight fraught; there blandest airs
Breathe o’er the fragrant soil,
And palmy groves ascend.
Thus is it that Life’s clamors and complaints,
And idle vaunts, unheeded pass me by,
Like the dull streamlet’s voice,
Or inarticulate wind.
Amid the jarring storm’s discordant strife,
O, searcher after rest! may’st thou too hear
That mightier melody
From chords attuned of Heaven!