From Morn To Noon He

To Adore The Conqueror, Who Now Beholds Cherub And Seraph Rolling In The Flood.

Who, As They Sung, Would Take The Prison'd Soul And Lap It In Elysium.

A Thousand Fantasies Begin To Throng Into My Memory, Of Calling Shapes, And Beckoning Shadows Dire, And Airy Tongues That Syllable Men's Names On Sands And Shores And Desert Wildernesses

I Will Point Ye Out The Right Path Of A Virtuous And Noble Education; Laborious Indeed At First Ascent, But Else So Smooth, So Green, So Full Of Goodly Prospect, And Melodious Sounds On Every Side, That The Harp Of Orpheus Was Not More Charming.

And What Is Faith, Love, Virtue Unassayed Alone, Without Exterior Help Sustained?