O blithful seat of unerring joy,
How upon thy own didst I call!
And my pathos varied; I chose from thee
And placed my soul at thy fate's knowledge all,
Though Mennon's muse hath sung too loud
The semblance of its surrounding glee,
In mortal stay thy guardian hath clung
Its forgetful, generous, threefold herd,
That through dense lofty heavens borne
In pure unceasing crisp of light
My Holy Ghost. But whither shall
My blest act find reprove, as in saintly
Passions unfelt to lay before
Humbly, a quest: who seeketh thy woob?