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Unto the men who see not as we see
Futurity was thought, in ancient times,
To be laid open, and they prophesied.
And know we not that from the blind have flowed
The highest, holiest raptures of the lyre;
And wisdom married to immortal verse?"
Among the humbler Worthies, at our feet
Lying insensible to human praise,
Love, or regret,—whose lineaments would next
Have been pourtrayed, I guess not; but it chanced
That near the quiet church-yard where we sate
A Team of horses, with a ponderous freight
Pressing behind, adown a rugged slope,
Whose sharp descent confounded their array,
Came at that moment, ringing noisily.
"Here," said the Pastor, "do we muse, and mourn
The waste of death; and lo! the giant Oak
Stretched on his bier!—that massy timber wain;
Nor fail to note the Man who guides the team."
He was a Peasant of the lowest class:
