The echoes, from the ruins of the Past,
Steal o’er our ears, sphering a heavenly isle;
Haply deceptive, yet we’ll there make fast,
Wreathing the skeleton world in childhood’s smile:
For who can build, when woods and quarries fail?
Or who can fathom the dark monster deep?
How shall the bud be rear’d from storm and hail?
Which drug and stun the Present, till it sleep:
Yet sift the grains, dissevering hope from fear,
For one least seed shall shame whole worlds of drought;
Brightens the prospect, when beheld more near;
Love trims the flights, that scorn knows but to flout:
The search may fail, yet seeking bears its crown,
And joy’s least treasure smooths the world’s worst frown.