Tempter from vulgar passions, scorns and spites,
Enfolder of all feelings that be kind,—
Before our souls thy quiet motions spread,
In one great calm, one undivided plain,
Immediate joy, blest memories of the dead,
And iris-tinted forms of hope’s domain,
Child of the still lagoons,
Open to every show
Of summer sunsets and autumnal moons,
Such as no other space of world can know,—