Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
Come what may, I have been blest.
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.