O solemn clime to which my spirit looks,
No more will I the path to thee defer,--
Worn here with search--a too sad wanderer,--
The dance-tune spent, surpassed the sacred books,
And spurned that city's walls where I did plan
A thousand lives, unwitting I was pent;
As though my thousand lives could be content
With any vista in the bounds of man!
Eternal clime, our exile is from thee!
Flood o'er thy portals like the tender morn!--
Receive! receive! and let us new be born!
We are thy substance--spirit of thy degree--
Mist of thy bliss--fire, love, infinity!
And only by some mischance from thee torn.