The soul with transport, more than joy can sing;
For, if not for the blaze, what cold would sting
Poor mortals, who crowd round it, nigh and nigher!
Is beauty not the camp-fire, which one host
Leaves burning for another, close behind?
Yea, yea, the Powers Divine, O Human Kind!
Have left their camp-fire burning on the coast,
Where they embarked from glimpse of Human mind,
To give you warmth and light to hold your post.