ng o'er the billowed tide,
As a proud steed doth toss its head in pride.
Upon its deck young Edmund silent stood--
A son of sadness; and his mournful mood
Grew day by day, while wave on wave rolled by,
And he their homeward current with a sigh
Followed with fondness. Still the vessel bore
The wanderer onward from his native shore,
Till in a distant land he lonely stood
'Midst city crowds in more than solitude.

XVII.

There long he wandered, without aim or plan,
Till _disappointment_ whispered, _Act as man!_
But though it cool the fever of the brain,
And shake, untaught, presumption's idle reign,
Bring folly to its level, and bid hope
Before the threshold of attainment stop,
Still--when its blastings thwart our every scheme,
When humblest wishes seem an idle dream,
And the bare bread of life is half denied--
Such disappointments humble not our pride;
But do they change the temper of the soul,
Change every word and action, and enrol
The nobler mind with things of basest name--
With idleness, dishonesty, and shame!
It hath its bounds, and thus far it is well
To check presumption--visions wild to quell;
Then 'tis the chastening of a father's hand--
All wholesome, all expedient. But to stand
Writhing beneath the unsparing lash, and be
Trampled on veriest earth, while misery
Stems the young blood, or makes it freeze with care,
And on the tearless eyeballs writes, _Despair!_
Oh! this is terrible!--and it doth throw
Upon the brow such early marks of woe,
That men seem old ere they have well been young;
Their fond hopes perish, and their hearts are wrung
With such dark feelings--misanthropic gloom,
Spite of their natures, haunts them to the tomb.

XVIII.

Now, Edmund 'midst the bustling throng appears
One old in wretchedness, though young in years;
For he had struggled with an angry world,
Had felt misfortune's billows o'er him hurled,
And strove against its tide--where wave meets wave
Like huge leviathans sporting wild, and lave
Their mountain breakers round with circling sweep,
Till, drawn within the vortex of their deep,
The man of ruin struggleth--but in vain;
Like dying swimmers who, in breathless pain
Despairing, strike at random!--It would be
A subject worth the schoolmen's scrutiny,
To trace each simple source from whence arose
The strong and mingled stream of human woes.
But here we may not. It is ours alone
To make the lonely wanderer's fortunes known;
And now, in plain but faithful colours