| Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie |
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| Thy soul's immensity; |
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| Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep |
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| Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, |
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| That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, |
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| Haunted for ever by the eternal mind,?/font> |
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| Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! |
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| On whom those truths do rest, |
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| Which we are toiling all our lives to find, |
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| In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; |
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| Thou, over whom thy Immortality |
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| Broods like the Day, a master o'er a slave, |
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| A presence which is not to be put by; |
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| Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might |
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| Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, |
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| Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke |
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| The years to bring the inevitable yoke, |
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| Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? |
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| Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, |
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| And custom lie upon thee with a weight, |
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| Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! |
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