A LAS ! we do but act; we are not free:
The presence of another is a chain
My trammelled spirit strives to break, in vain;
How strangely different myself from me!
Thoughtful in solitude, serenely blest,
Crown'd and enthroned in mental majesty,
Equal to all things great, and daring all,
I muse of mysteries, and am at rest;
But, in the midst, some dull intruded guest
Topples me from my heights, holding in thrall
With his hard eye the traitor in my breast,
That before humbler intellects is cow'd,
Silently shrinking from the common crowd,
And only with the highest self-possess'd.