The pestilential blasts of stubborn will,
When grown mature, are gather’d for the skies.
And is devotion thought too much on earth,
When beings, so superior, homage boast,
And triumph in prostrations to the Throne?
But wherefore more of planets, or of stars?
Ethereal journeys, and, discover’d there,
Ten thousand worlds, ten thousand ways devout,
All nature sending incense to the Throne,
Except the bold Lorenzos of our sphere? 1900