From Kerguelens land to the verge of Peru;
Not a soul has been born, not a creature on earth,
But I have been there in the hour of birth;
I was present each minute in life as it pass’d,
And I mix’d with the dust it return’d to at last.
In the cup of the lily I love to repose,
And I guard, like a spirit, the bud of the rose.
In the feverish thoughts, and the doubt of a dream,
In the murmur that wakes from the bed of the stream;
In the struggle we hear when the tempest is high,