Were dull, inert, an unharmonious band;
Silent as are the harp's untuned strings
Without the touches of the poet's hand.
A sacred spark, created by His breath,
The immortal mind of man his image bears;
A spirit living midst the forms of death,
Oppress'd but not subdued by mortal cares—
A germ, preparing in the winter's frost,
To rise and bud and blossom in the spring;
An unfledged eagle by the tempest tost,