Or mountain vale, our echo’s but child of thy sound.
Or as chess-players, striving in their dubious game;
Our ‘check’ and ‘mate’ are from thee, man of mighty name.
What are we,—can we be? ’Tis thou’rt our life of life,
So long as thou’rt among us. If not, all is strife.
We’re naught;—we’re nothings. All our being is in thee.
Existence’ very self by thy frail form we see.
We’re lions, true; but stand on vanes of weathercocks,
Our twists and twirls, our starts, our jumps, are from wind’s shocks.290
These lions’ movements are in sight; the winds unseen.