Threadeth all the labyrinths of thought, and leadeth him to his God.
Come hither, child of meditation, upon whose high fair forehead
Glittereth the star of mind in its unearthly lustre:
Hast thou nought to tell us of thine airy joys,—
When, borne on sinewy pinions, strong as the western condor,
The soul, after soaring for a while round the cloud-capped Andes of reflection,
Glad in its conscious immortality, leaveth a world behind,
To dare at one bold flight the broad Atlantic to another?
Hast thou no secret pangs to whisper common men,
No dread of thine own energies, still active day and night,