Daughter of Heaven ! if here, e'en here,
The wing of towering thought was thine:
If, on this dim and mundane sphere,
Fair truth illumed thy bright career,
With morning-star divine;
How must thy bless'd ethereal soul,
Now kindle in her noon-tide ray;
And hail, unfetter'd by control,
The Fount of Day !
E'en now, perhaps, thy seraph eyes
Undimm'd by doubt, nor veil'd by fear,
Behold a chain of wonders rise;
Gaze on the noon-beam of the skies,
Transcendent, pure, and clear !
E'en now, the fair, the good, the true,
From mortal sight conceal'd,
Bless in one blaze thy raptured view,
In light reveal'd !
If here, the lore of distant time,
And learning's flowers were all thine own;
How must thy mind ascend sublime,
Matured in heaven's empyreal clime,
To light's unclouded throne !
Perhaps, e'en now, thy kindling glance,
Each orb of living fire explores;
Darts o'er creation's wide expanse,
Admires–adores !
Oh ! if that lightning-eye surveys
This dark and sublunary plain;
How must the wreath of human praise,
Fade, wither, vanish, in thy gaze,
So dim, so pale, so vain !
How, like a faint and shadowy dream,
Must quiver learning's brightest ray;
While on thine eyes, with lucid stream,
The sun of glory pours his beam,
Perfection's day!
