SUGGESTED BY THE FOREGOING

Tranquillity! the sovereign aim wert thou

In heathen schools of philosophic lore;

Heart-stricken by stern destiny of yore

The Tragic Muse thee served with thoughtful vow;

And what of hope Elysium could allow

Was fondly seized by Sculpture, to restore

Peace to the Mourner. But when He who wore

The crown of thorns around his bleeding brow

Warmed our sad being with celestial light,

Then Arts which still had drawn a softening grace

From shadowy fountains of the Infinite,

Communed with that Idea face to face:

And move around it now as planets run,

Each in its orbit round the central Sun.