LYRICAL MONOLOGUE.
185
Let Whig and Tory stir their blood;
There must be stormy weather;
But for some true result of good
All parties work together.
Let there be thistles, there are grapes;
If old things, there are new;
Ten thousand broken lights and shapes,
Yet glimpses of the true.
Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme,
We lack not rhymes and reasons,
As on this whirligig of Time
We circle with the seasons.
This earth is rich in man and maid;
With fair horizons bound:
This whole wide earth, of light and shade
Comes out, a perfect round.
High over roaring Temple-bar,
And, set in Heaven's third story,
I look at all things as they are,
But thro' a kind of glory.
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