Not all the earth, nor air, nor sea Could furnish food to nourish thee; Nor welling founts, nor rivers free, The spirit's thirst allay: Nor silver web, nor cloth of gold, Nor stuffs, that time can e'er unfold, Nor pearls, nor gems this world may hold, Compose thee an array. Yet all the fibres of my frame Own that from thee their feeling came; And, at the slightest touch, will claim Thy closest sympathy. Thou art their life, their light, their spring, Informing them in every thing, But how they are allied, and cling, My nobler self, to thee. And do I thus the power survey, Whom all my meaner powers obey? Hand, foot and tongue and eye--are they The servants of thy will? And when they pause, repose to take, Dost thou, untiring and awake, Thy pinions spread, and swiftly make Thy wide excursions still? What art thou, never slumbering soul, To stretch thy wings from pole to pole-- To span the globe--to mark its roll-- Its elements to see, Conspiring thus, to prophesy Its end to come before thine eye, Whilst thou canst fire and flood defy, Nor ever cease to be? And, swifter than an eagle flies, Or arrows dart, dost thou arise Through air and space, and scale the skies, 'Mid shining spheres to roam: And with thy conscious rank elate, Dost stand and watch at heaven's bright gate, For glimpses of that rich estate Where thou may'st claim thy home. Thence, near the pit dost thou go down, To spy the difference 'twixt the crown Of life, and that dread withering frown, Which blights a spirit there. Then, on eternity's dark brink, Between them dost thou pause, and think, And ask, if thou shalt soar or sink-- To joy or wo the heir. Too blind to trace thy being's plan, Too small my nobler part to span, I end my quest where it began, And from myself retire. I hence must own within my breast A power of unknown powers possessed-- A flame, not long to be repressed, Of clear immortal fire. TIME. Time, with thy kind and never-wearying powers, Giving whate'er we fondly count as ours; Life, love, hope, faith, the sun, the stars and flowers; All that to man is dear to thee we owe! Yet does he call thee, slayer, robber, thief, And stern, as of his foes thou wert the chief, Filling his path with ruins, pain and grief, Without one tender blessing to bestow! Nature we laud, when thou, paternal Time, Hast given maturity, as well as prime, To all her works, in every age and clime, Since the first floweret on her bosom grew. Light from the darkness doth thy hand unfold: Beauty from dust we in thy deeds behold: The frail, the dimmed, the withered, worn and old Thy breath dissolves, that they may shine anew.