Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.

Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.

Wisdom sits with children round her knees.

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free, The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration; the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquillity; The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the sea: Listen! the mighty being is awake, And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thundereverlastingly.