Lordly beeches are studded on the down, and willows crowd around the rivulet,
And the tall pine and hazel-thicket shade the rambling hunter.
Shall the rock boast of its fertility? shall it lift the head in pride?—
Shall the mind of man be vain of the harvest of its thoughts?
The savage is that rock; and a million chances from without,
By little and little acting on the mind, heap up the hot-bed of society;
And the soul, fed and fattened on the thoughts and things around it,
Groweth to perfection, full of fruit, the fruit of foreign seeds.
For we learn upon a hint, we find upon a clue,
We yield an hundred-fold; but the great sower is Analogy.