The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.
A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.
That inward eye/ Which is the bliss of solitude.
The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.
As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.