To him Creation all her stores unrolled,
To him unveiled the glories of her face;
To him ’twas given her mysteries to behold,
Her countless forms of grandeur and of grace—
The blue-eyed violet in its hiding-place,
The drowsy locust, singing at high noon,
From the elm-bough, her shrill, unvarying lays,
Till listening Nature seems almost to swoon—
The humblest sights and sounds chimed with his spirit’s tune.
Throughout the universe he ever saw