Now all in Heaven is tranquil; peeps one cleft
Of silver splendour; mark! an angel stands there,
And breathes his bubble, as fresh childhood deft;
Blushing into life, the concave pays his care,
And purple melts to gold; the scarce white cloud
Mantles the mines that make such depth of blue,
And the delicate ripple tingles to that shroud,
Consorting music with its late-found hue,
Such is religion:—immanent in the altars
That the pure heart prostrates at Beauty’s shrine,
In ceremonies, pomps, and forms it falters;
But rapt at Nature, stands confessed divine:
Offspring of Joy and Love, religion wings
The adoration of the heart’s mute strings.