The hand that rounded Peter’s dome,

And groin’d the aisles of Christian Rome,

Wrought in a sad sincerity.

Himself from God he could not free;

He builded better than he knew,

The conscious stone to beauty grew.

Know’st thou what wove yon wood-bird’s nest

Of leaves, and feathers from her breast;

Or how the fish outbuilt her shell,

Painting with morn each annual cell;