They that gave voice to visions—but in vain!
Still wrapt in clouds the awful secret lies,
It hath no language midst the starry train,
Earth has no gifted tongue heaven’s mysteries to explain.
Then stood forth one, a child of other sires,
And other inspiration!—one of those
Who on the willows hung their captive lyres,
And sat and wept, where Babel’s river flows.
His eye was bright, and yet the pale repose
Of his pure features half o’erawed the mind;