But through the channels of weak sense alone,

Thus like a fountain filt'ring thro' the clay.

Or doth the soul hold converse spiritual

With powers unseen that fill the universe,

Receiving, as by intuition, things

That man attains not by intelligence?

Is not the spirit perfect in itself,

Unmingled with the base alloy of earth

That prisons it within this narrow sphere?

Hath it not apprehension natural,

[Pg 21]

Attributive as immortality,

Unshackled by an organ that will die

Beneath the friction of a few short years?

O there is blindness on us in this life,

That seeth not the things which lie around,

E'en in the circuit of our littleness!

But death will loose the scales from off our eyes,

And smite our fleshly dwelling place in twain;

Freeing the spirit, till with joyous wings

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