I.

Ah, yes, Philosopher, thy creed is true! 'Tis our own eyes that give the rainbow's hue: What we call Matter, in this outer earth, Takes from our senses, those warm dupes, its birth. How fair to sinless Adam Eden smiled; But sin brought tears, and Eden was a wild! Man's soul is as an everlasting dream, Glassing life's fictions on a phantom stream: To-day, in glory all the world is clad-- Wherefore, O Man?--because thy heart is glad. To-morrow, and the self-same scene survey-- _The same!_ Oh no--the pomp hath pass'd away! Wherefore the change? _Within_, go, ask reply-- Thy heart hath given its winter to the sky! Vainly the world revolves upon its pole;-- Light--Darkness--Seasons--these are in the soul!