'T WAS but a wither'd, worthless heap
Of dirt, and moss, and hair;
Why then should Thought and Fancy keep
A busy vigil there?

Yet for some moments as I stood,
And on it look'd alone,
I could but think in musing mood,
Where are its inmates gone?—

Perhaps beneath some sunnier sky
They joyous sing and soar;
Perhaps in sad captivity
Eternally deplore—

And then, Imagination stirr'd
Down to its hidden spring,
Far, far beyond both nest and bird,
Thought spread her airy wing.

When from our tenements of clay,
Where briefly they are shrined,
Thought, Fancy, Feeling pass away—
Where flies the deathless Mind?

Either, from sin redeem'd, it soars
On angel wing above,
And there its gratitude outpours
In praise and joy and love;

Or, exiled from the eternal source
Whence such alone can flow,
It breathes in accents of remorse
Unutterable woe.