Beauteous the moon full on the lawn;
  And beauteous when the veil’s withdrawn
  The virgin to her spouse;
  Beauteous the temple, decked and filled,
  When to the heaven of heavens they build
  Their heart-directed vows: 

  Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these,
  The shepherd King upon his knees,
  For his momentous trust;
  With wish of infinite conceit
  For man, beast, mute, the small and great,
  And prostrate dust to dust.

  Precious the bounteous widow’s mite;
  And precious, for extreme delight,
  The largess from the churl;
  Precious the ruby’s blushing blaze,
  And Alba’s blest imperial rays,
  And pure cerulean pearl;

  Precious the penitential tear;
  And precious is the sigh sincere,
  Acceptable to God;
  And precious are the winning flowers,
  In gladsome Israel’s feast of bowers,
  Bound on the hallowed sod: 

  More precious that diviner part
  Of David, even the Lord’s own heart,
  Great, beautiful, and new;
  In all things where it was intent,
  In all extremes, in each event,
  Proof—­answering true to true.

  Glorious the sun in mid career;
  Glorious th’ assembled fires appear;
  Glorious the comet’s train;
  Glorious the trumpet and alarm;
  Glorious th’ Almighty’s stretched-out arm;
  Glorious th’ enraptured main;

  Glorious the northern lights a-stream;
  Glorious the song, when God’s the theme;
  Glorious the thunder’s roar;
  Glorious, Hosannah from the den;
  Glorious the catholic amen;
  Glorious the martyr’s gore: 

  Glorious, more glorious, is the crown
  Of Him that brought salvation down,
  By meekness called Thy son;
  Thou that stupendous truth believed,
  And now the matchless deed’s achieved,
  Determined, dared, and done.

  OLIVER GOLDSMITH

  FROM THE TRAVELLER; OR, A PROSPECT OF
  SOCIETY

  As some lone miser, visiting his store,
  Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts It o’er,
  Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill,
  Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still: 
  Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
  Pleased with each good that Heaven to man supplies;
  Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
  To see the hoard of human bliss so small,
  And oft I wish amidst the scene to find
  Some spot to real happiness consigned,
  Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest. 
  May gather bliss to see my fellows blest. 
  But where to find that happiest spot below,
  Who can direct, when all pretend to know?

* * * * *