For we walk blindfold,—and a minute may be much,—a step may reach the precipice;
What earthly loss, what heavenly gain, may not this day produce?
Levelled of Alps and Andes, without its valleys and ravines,
How dull the face of earth, unfeatured of both beauty and sublimity:
And so, shorn of mystery, beggared in its hopes and fears,
How flat the prospect of existence, mapped by intuitive foreknowledge.
Praise God, creature of earth, for the mercies linked with secresy,
That spices of uncertainty enrich the cup of life;
Praise God, His hosts on high, for the mysteries that make all joy;
What were intelligence with nothing more to learn, or heaven, in eternity of sameness?