Or if beneath Italian skies,
    The wanderer’s feet delighted glide,
      Harold, in merry Juan’s guise,
    Shall be his tutor and his guide. 
      One living essence God hath poured
    In every heart—­the love of sway—­
      And though he may not wield the sword,
    Each is a despot in his way. 
      The infant rules by cries and tears—­
    The maiden, with her sunny eyes—­
      The miser, with the hoard of years—­
    The monarch, with his clanking ties. 
      To me the will—­the power—­were given. 
    O’er plaything man to weave my spell,
      And if I bore him up to heaven,
    ’Twas but to hurl him down to hell. 
      And if I chose upon the rack
    Of doubt to stretch the tortured mind,
      To turn Faith’s heavenward footstep back,
    Her hope despoiled—­her vision, blind—­
      Or if on Virtue’s holy brow,
    A wreath of scorn I sought to twine—­
      And bade her minions mocking bow,
    With sweeter vows at pleasure’s shrine—­
      Or if I mirrored to the thought,
    With glorious truth the charms of earth,
      While yet the trusting fool I taught,
    To scoff at Him who gave it birth—­
      Or if I filled the soul with light,
    And bore its buoyant wing in air—­
      To plunge it down in deeper night,
    And mock its maniac wanderings there—­
      I did but wield the wand of power,
    That God intrusted to my clasp,
      And not, the tyrant of an hour—­
    Will I resign it to Death’s grasp! 
      The despot with his iron chain,
    In idle bonds the limbs may bind—­
      He who would hold a sterner reign,
    Must twine the links around the mind. 
      Thus I have thrown upon my race,
    A chain that ages cannot rend—­
      And mocking Harold stays to trace,
    The slaves that to my sceptre bend.”

The Teacher’s Lesson.

    I saw a child some four years old,
      Along a meadow stray;
    Alone she went—­unchecked—­untold—­
      Her home not far away.

    She gazed around on earth and sky—­
      Now paused, and now proceeded;
    Hill, valley, wood,—­she passed them by,
      Unmarked, perchance unheeded.

    And now gay groups of roses bright,
      In circling thickets bound her—­
    Yet on she went with footsteps light,
      Still gazing all around her.

    And now she paused, and now she stooped,
      And plucked a little flower—­
    A simple daisy ’twas, that drooped
      Within a rosy bower.

    The child did kiss the little gem,
      And to her bosom pressed it;
    And there she placed the fragile stem,
      And with soft words caressed it.

    I love to read a lesson true,
      From nature’s open book—­
    And oft I learn a lesson new,
      From childhood’s careless look.