And weave the tissued woof of sense and mind,
Or her blind impulse in yon mansions trace
The firmest fabric with the amplest space?
No! while ye boast to bow at Reason's shrine,
That Reason bids you hail the Power Divine.
Not huge Behemoth, not the whale's vast form,
That spouts a torrent and that breathes a storm,
Transcends in organs apt the puny fly,
Her fine-strung feelers, and her glanceful eye
Set with ten thousand lenses. Not the pile