Sunk are its idols now—and God alone

May rear the fabric by their fall o’erthrown!

Yet from its inmost shrine, by storms laid bare,

Is heard an oracle that cries—“Beware!

Child of the dust! but ransom’d of the skies!

One breath of heaven, and thus thy glory dies!

Haste, ere the hour of doom—draw nigh to Him

Who dwells above, between the cherubim!”

Spirit dethroned! and check’d in mid career—

Son of the morning! exiled from thy sphere,