’Tis a fond creed, and drags into the stream
Truth, who sits by, and varies with the wave;
But fate decrees, that still the froward dream
Shall enthrall nature, and dig pride his grave:
If the form change, and colour be the dye
Of the sun’s brilliance breathing through the air;
If men still vary, and if all things fly,
Shifting from real base to seeming fair;
If truth should seem to change and God to stain
His snowy vesture in the winnowing years;
Yet, something godlike ever shall remain,
This well I know, confirm it, O ye spheres;
Yet, beauty’s form shall beckon, and inspire,
Exalting earth with its spiritual fire.