And music in mine ears, if not in thine’—
He doth its bounds to every soul assign,
Its voice, its language—using which to tell
His praise, he counts that it doth praise him well;
And when there is a knocking at heaven’s gate,
And at its threshold many suppliants wait,
Then simple Love will often enter in,
While haughty Science may no entrance win.
Thus while his words were rougher husks than thine,
They yet might keep a kernel more divine,—