"Cling to the earth, poor grovelling worm; 'Tis not for thee to soar Against the fury of the storm, Amid the thunder's roar! There's glory in that daring strife Unknown, undreamt by thee; There's speechless rapture in the life Of those who follow me. Yes, I have seen thy votaries oft, Upheld by thee their guide, In strength and courage mount aloft The steepy mountain-side; I've seen them stand against the sky, And gazing from below, Beheld thy lightning in their eye Thy triumph on their brow. Oh, I have felt what glory then, What transport must be theirs! So far above their fellow-men, Above their toils and cares; Inhaling Nature's purest breath, Her riches round them spread, The wide expanse of earth beneath, Heaven's glories overhead! But I have seen them helpless, dash'd Down to a bloody grave, And still thy ruthless eye has flash'd, Thy strong hand did not save; I've seen some o'er the mountain's brow Sustain'd awhile by thee, O'er rocks of ice and hills of snow Bound fearless, wild, and free. Bold and exultant was their mien, While thou didst cheer them on; But evening fell,--and then, I ween, Their faithless guide was gone. Alas! how fared thy favourites then,-- Lone, helpless, weary, cold? Did ever wanderer find again The path he left of old? Where is their glory, where the pride That swelled their hearts before? Where now the courage that defied The mightiest tempest's roar? What shall they do when night grows black, When angry storms arise? Who now will lead them to the track Thou taught'st them to despise? Spirit of Pride, it needs not this To make me shun thy wiles, Renounce thy triumph and thy bliss, Thy honours and thy smiles! Bright as thou art, and bold, and strong, That fierce glance wins not me, And I abhor thy scoffing tongue-- I will not follow thee! Spirit of Faith! be thou my guide, O clasp my hand in thine, And let me never quit thy side; Thy comforts are divine! Earth calls thee blind, misguided one,-- But who can shew like thee Forgotten things that have been done, And things that are to be? Secrets conceal'd from Nature's ken, Who like thee can declare? Or who like thee to erring men God's holy will can bear? Pride scorns thee for thy lowly mien,-- But who like thee can rise Above this toilsome, sordid scene, Beyond the holy skies? Meek is thine eye and soft thy voice, But wondrous is thy might, To make the wretched soul rejoice, To give the simple light! And still to all that seek thy way This magic power is given,-- E'en while their footsteps press the clay, Their souls ascend to heaven.