But thine as well in prayer
Becomes its earthly dwelling.
Thou look’st a clouded Moon,
When veiled for solemn duty;
If thou’rt refused a boon,
Why give thee so much beauty?
XXI.
Oh glorious race, indomitably fierce!
Earth’s peasant-lords, triumphant o’er each shock;
No, not more vain Antæus’ self to pierce,