O'er this small tract of continental land,

His fancy bearing no divining wand.

Our uninquiring corpses lie more low

Than our life's curiosity doth go;

Our most ambitious steps climb not so high

As in their hourly sport the sparrows fly.

Yonder cloud's blown farther in a day

Than our most vagrant feet may ever stray.

Surely, O Lord, he hath not greatly erred

Who hath so little from his birthplace stirred.