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��INTRODUCTION

��which make early life impotent and unhappy, and later years regretful.

This brings me to a point where, as paper begins to fail, I think I can condense what more I would say, and more agreeably, into verse, unless I should fail in making the whole composition as happy as the stanza which now occurs to me. Of course, I shall hardly expect in a rough draft the finish of which the idea is susceptible.

Planter of grief ! why ceaseless tell

The woes that make thee weep ? Ourselves create our heaven and hell ;

'Tis as we sow we reap.

Make not this world as sad as night,

In hope of future bliss ; Him best a better will delight

Who makes the best of this.

From yonder rose all blushing red,

From yonder sky so blue, No real tints their radiance shed : Our eyes create the hue.

So, as the hours fly on, they cast

Few joys, few griefs behind ; They but reflect, while fluttering past.

The colors of the mind.

Canst thou no sorrow, then, relieve,

No happiness enhance, No mind from error undeceive,

No germs of truth advance ?

Whose cares are these with calm delight

May ponder on the past, And still escape the dreaded night

Of dotngc at the last.

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