At His Birth A Star,

The Low'ring Element Scowls O'er The Darken'd Landscape.

Nor Jealousy Was Understood, The Injur'd Lover's Hell.

Say, Heavenly Pow'rs, Where Shall We Find Such Love? Which Of Ye Will Be Mortal To Redeem Man's Mortal Crime, And Just Th' Unjust To Save.

And Pomp, And Feast, And Revelry, With Mask, And Antique Pageantry, Such Sights As Youthful Poets Dream On Summer Eves By Haunted Stream.

And Fast By, Hanging In A Golden Chain, This Pendent World, In Bigness As A Star Of Smallest Magnitude, Close By The Moon.