The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of From hill to dale, still more and more heaven,
astray,
70
Who centered in our make such strange extremes, From different natures marvellously mixed, Connection exquisite of distant worlds, Distinguished link in being's endless chain, Midway from nothing to the Deity! A beam ethereal, sullied and absorbed, 75 Though sullied and dishonored, still divine, Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory, a frail child of dust, Helpless immortal, insect infinite, A worm, a god!-I tremble at myself, And in myself am lost, at home a stranger. Thought wanders up and down, surprised, aghast,