Except for a flare at will that, then, the throng,
Reduced to dust, may rise and whirl along
The lift and drop of glitter, without spark
To set the spring a-crackling with bird song,
Till bud and angel both come out to hark!
NOT THIS OUR COUNTRY'S GLORY
O Country of the Sun's warm plenteous hand
To every germ of virtue, how below
Thy progress, mope Gold Mongers to and fro,