O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.

As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?

Heaven open'd wide Her ever during gates, harmonious sound, On golden hinges moving.

To adore the conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood.

All hope is lost of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left, is left no fear.

The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

Methought I saw my late espoused saint.