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DEPRESSION

How sad his fate who labours with the thought
That all his effort must successless prove!
And such is mine, since never yet I wrought
Aught that my calmer judgment might approve.
To form great projects only to discover
How weak and all inadequate my powers:
To know the muse, though fervently I love her,
Condemns me to the toil of wasted hours—
Is there a fate more full of woe than this,
Or tragedy that holds a deeper sadness?
No hell he fears (so far removed from bliss)
Who may not hope his gloom shall end in gladness:
Yet will I choose, however ill I fare,
Effort in vain rather than blank despair.

EXALTATION

Lapped in a peace profound my spirit lies,
Its perfect calm no passions agitate;
No ghosts from out the past or present rise
To threat me with the wrath of hostile fate:
The future—ah! I care not what it brings,
It cannot this great present bliss destroy;
No jarring note doth fret my soul, which sings
A song of perfect and unmingled joy.
The world before has never seemed so fair,
No murmur of its miseries I hear:
Can I have reached a nobler region where
There is no sorrow, suffering, or fear?

Yet were I blessed still more, if all were blessed,
And in such peaceful perfect calm could rest.

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