'Man goeth forth' with reckless trust 
Upon his wealth of mind, 
As if in self a thing of dust 
Creative skill might find; 
He schemes and toils; stone, wood and ore 
Subject or weapon of His power. 

By arch and spire, by tower-girt heights, 
He would his boast fulfil; 
By marble births, and mimic lights,? 
Yet lacks one secret still; 
Where is the master-hand shall give 
To breathe, to move, to speak, to live? 

O take away this shade of might, 
The puny toil of man, 
And let great Nature in my sight 
Unroll her gorgeous plan; 
I cannot bear those sullen walls, 
Those eyeless towers, those tongueless halls. 

Art's labour'd toys of highest name 
Are nerveless, cold, and dumb; 
And man is fitted but to frame 
A coffin or a tomb; 
Well suits, when sense is pass'd away, 
Such lifeless works the lifeless clay. 

Here let me sit where wooded hills 
Skirt yon far-reaching plain; 
While cattle bank its winding rills, 
And suns embrown its grain; 
Such prospect is to me right dear, 
For freedom, health, and joy are here. 

There is a spirit ranging through 
The earth, the stream, the air; 
Ten thousand shapes, garbs ever new, 
That busy One doth wear; 
In colour, scent, and taste, and sound 
The energy of Life is found. 

The leaves are rustling in the breeze, 
The bird renews her song; 
From field to brook, o'er heath, o'er trees, 
The sunbeam glides along; 
The insect, happy in its hour, 
Floats softly by, or sips the flower. 

Now dewy rain descends, and now 
Brisk showers the welkin shroud; 
I care not, though with angry brow 
Frowns the red thunder-cloud; 
Let hail-storm pelt, and lightning harm, 
'Tis Nature's work, and has its charm. 

Ah! lovely Nature! others dwell 
Full favour'd in thy court; 
I of thy smiles but hear them tell, 
And feed on their report, 
Catching what glimpse an Ulcombe yields 
To strangers loitering in her fields. 

I go where form has ne'er unbent 
The sameness of its sway; 
Where iron rule, stern precedent, 
Mistreat the graceful day; 
To pine as prisoner in his cell, 
And yet be thought to love it well. 

Yet so His high dispose has set, 
Who binds on each his part; 
Though absent, I may cherish yet 
An Ulcombe of the heart; 
Calm verdant hope divinely given, 
And suns of peace, and scenes of heaven;? 

A soul prepared His will to meet, 
Full fix'd His work to do; 
Not laboured into sudden heat, 
But inly born anew.? 
So living Nature, not dull Art, 
Shall plan my ways and rule my heart.