In other men, his fresh as morning rose,
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great,
Beneath their arguments seemed struggling, while
He from above descending, stopped to touch
The loftiest thought, and proudly stooped as though
It scarce deserved his verse. With nature's self
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest
At will, with all her glorious Majesty;
He laid his hand upon "the ocean's wave,"