THERE have been poets that in verse display
The elemental forms of human passions;
Poets have been, to whom the fickle fashions
And all the willful humors of the day
Have furnished matter for a polished lay:
And many are the smooth elaborate tribe
Who, emulous of thee, the shape describe,
And fain would every shifting hue portray
Of restless Nature. But, thou mighty Seer!
'Tis thine to celebrate the thoughts that make
The life of souls, the truths for whose sweet sake
We to ourselves and to our God are dear.
Of Nature's inner shirine thou art the priest,
Where most she works when we perceive her least.
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