Happiness is a road-side flower, growing on the highways of Usefulness,
Plucked, it shall wither in thy hand; passed by, it is fragrance to thy spirit.
Hatred is the atmosphere of hell.
Once more, in the matter of wealth: if thou throw thine all on a chance,
Men will come around thee, and wait, and watch the turning of the wheel;
And if, in the lottery of life, thou draw a splendid prize,
What foresight hadst thou, and skill! yea, what enterprize and wisdom!
But, if it fall out against thee, and thou fail in thy perilous endeavour,
Behold, the simple did sow, and hath reaped the right harvest of his folly.
And the world will be gladly excused, nor will reach out a finger to help;
For why should this speculative dullard be a whirlpool to all around him?
Go to, let him sink by himself: we knew what the end of it would be.
For the man hath missed his mark, and his fellows look no further.
In the morning of life, before its wearisome journey,
The youthful soul doth expand, in the simple luxury of being;
It hath not contracted its wishes, nor set a limit on its hopes;
The wing of fancy is unclipped, and sin hath not seared the feelings:
Each feature is stamped with immortality, for all its desires are infinite,
And it seeketh an ocean of happiness, to fill the deep hollow within.
Where thou perceivest knowledge, bend the ear of attention and respect;
But yield not further to the teaching, than as thy mind is warranted by reasons.
Better is an obstinant disputant, that yieldeth inch by inch,
Than the shallow traitor to himself, who surrendereth to half an argument.
Mind is not as merchandise which decreaseth in the using, but like the passions of men, which rejoice and expand in exertion.
Man liveth from hour to hour, and knoweth not what may happen;
Influences circle him on all sides, and yet must he answer for his actions:
For the being that is master of himself, bendeth events to his will,
But a slave to selfish passions is the wavering creature of circumstance.
Memory may be but a power of coming to the treasury of Fact,
A momentary self-desertion, an absence in spirit from the now,
An actual coursing hither and thither, by the mind, slipped from its leash,
A life, as in the mystery of dreams, spent within the limits of a moment.
Look too on this poor planet of ours,
Torn by the storms of mysterious powers,
Evil contending with good from its birth,
Wrenching in battle the heartstrings of earth,—
Ah! what infinities circle us here,
Strangeness and wonderment swathing the sphere!