Nought in sea, torrent, hill escapes thy eyes;
No green plain, no tree that invites a nest.
With soothing touch in every breathing breast
Thou layest seed of love, yet with such skill,
A forethought so unerring, and a will
So tenderly sure, that never a spark
Strays from its order, but knows each its mark;
Kind choosing kind, species species, race race,
Till Being grows, age to age, in emulous grace!
Alone thou steerest Nature on her course!