Immoveable, as the antithesis of the pole:

Then, wherefore snarl, wrangling o’er half-starved names,

That do but mock the thing which most believe?

Such jarring furthers not, but rather lames

The substance man would from the eternal weave:

Love, Beauty, Joy, echoes from inmost Nature,

Howe’er miscalled, must still remain the same;

Let man develope each distinctive feature,

And all shall worship then, what none dare blame:

Most born without the pale, yet linger there,

Nor mourn as lost, what ne’er employed their care.

{19}

{19}

XIX.

There is a spirit that sanctifies the dulness

Of those, unconscious of the charm they boast;

There is a soul, sparkling in nature’s fulness,

Which laughs at custom’s quibbles, trembling ghost;

A love there is, whose breath trembles with godhead,

Which robs the desert of the wanderer’s fears;

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