O Loss Of Sight, Of Thee I

And On The Tree Of Life, The Middle Tree And Highest There That Grew, Sat Like A Cormorant.

Hope Elevates, And Joy Brightens His Crest.

Better To Reign In Hell Than Serve In Heav'n.

The Oracles Are Dumb, No Voice Or Hideous Hum Runs Through The Arched Roof In Words Deceiving. Apollo From His Shrine Can No More Divine, With Hollow Shriek The Steep Of Delphos Leaving. No Nightly Trance Or Breathed Spell Inspires The Pale-eyed Priest From The Prophetic Cell.

Man Hath His Daily Work Of Body Or Mind Appointed, Which Declares His Dignity, And The Regard Of Heav'n On All His Ways.