“———the mind
Has grown colossal, and can only find
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined
Thy hopes of immortality: and thou
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined,
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow.”
Yet, poor, weak, fickle, terrified man! How often does he turn from the afflatus of Revelation, to build again his temple of doubt and despair, upon the mere caprice of his humor! Fickle, most fickle ground. It well nigh makes one weep to hear his melancholy breathing:
“Son of the morning, rise! approach you here!
Come, but molest not yon defenseless urn: