Where blows on him of rude misfortune fall—
His head with weight of misery sore bowed down,
His pinion clogged with dust, his courage gone.
Then from his nest in heaven is heard a cry,
And straight he spreads his wings divine on high:
Lift him, O Lord, unto the Lotus tree,
No meaner pitch may with his birth agree;
Grant him a pinion of such lofty flight,
That he may on the Lotus tree alight:
In thy bright palaces his nest prepare;—