The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

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

Wisdom sits with children round her knees.

Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

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

Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.