Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

Hearing often-times the still, sad music of humanity, nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power to chasten and subdue.

And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man.

Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.

And I am happy when I sing.

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.