The Ancient, the Immortal—is it not
A high-born privilege ne'er to be forgot,
To feel none of earth's ills?
Sublime ye are as Heaven!
Though bleak not barren, silent yet not dumb,
From out your shadows health and music come,
And thronging thoughts are given!
Not worthless is your aim,
To stand from age to age, from hour to hour,
The Almighty's temple, token of his power,