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That we should pry far off yet be unraised;
That we should pore, and dwindle as we pore,
Viewing all objects unremittingly
In disconnection dead and spiritless;
And still dividing, and dividing still,
Break down all grandeur, still unsatisfied
With the perverse attempt, while littleness
May yet become more little; waging thus
An impious warfare with the very life
Of our own Souls!—And if indeed there be
An all-pervading Spirit, upon whom
Our dark foundations rest, could He design,
Or will his rites and services permit,
That this magnificent effect of Power,
The Earth we tread, the Sky which we behold
By day, and all the pomp which night reveals,
That these—and that superior Mystery
Our vital Frame, so fearfully devised,
And the dread Soul within it—should exist
Only to be examined, pondered, searched,
Probed, vexed, and criticised?—Accuse me not
Of arrogance, unknown Wanderer as I am,
If, having walked with Nature threescore years,
