The light of one great soul, kind as the sky,
Upon these later days,—
Not like the simpler time gone by,
But set with snares of sense and ease,
And crowded with poor phantom flatteries
That serve us, and enslave.
We come, forgetting for a while
Our million-peopled cities, pile on pile
Upsoaring starry-windowed in the night
To perilous Babel-height;