'There's not one atom of yon earth

But once was living man; Nor the minutest drop of rain, That hangeth in its thinnest cloud, But flowed in human veins; And from the burning plains Where Libyan monsters yell, From the most gloomy glens Of Greenland's sunless clime, To where the golden fields Of fertile England spread Their harvest to the day, Thou canst not find one spot Whereon no city stood.

'How strange is human pride! I tell thee that those living things, To whom the fragile blade of grass That springeth in the morn And perisheth ere noon,

Is an unbounded world;

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I tell thee that those viewless beings, Whose mansion is the smallest particle Of the impassive atmosphere,

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