And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him

Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the waste

Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils

O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge

Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong plunge

Is to eternity, looks shuddering up,

And marks ye in your placid loveliness—

Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his chill hands,

Blesses your pencilled beauty. Mid the pomp

Of mountain summits rushing on the sky,