Appareled in a clear, celestial light;
Blest be the Prophet, who has turned our sight,
From the drear Present’s sinful turbulence,
To his ideal world, that island bright
In Time’s dim ocean, where men pitch their tents,
And walk before the Lord in fearless innocence.
I see the Poet in his peaceful home,
The home of mountain, forest, and of lake,
While closing round him Death’s cool shadows come,
And the calm hopes of Heaven within him wake,