Who is this with unerring step doth tempt the wilds, 
where only nature's foot hath trod. 
Tis Contemplation, daughter of Grey Morning. 
Majestical she steppeth, and with her pure quill 
on every flower writeth Wisdom's name. 
Now lowly bending, whispers in mine ear : 
O man, how great, how little art thou. 
O man, slave for each moment. 
Lord of eternity, Seest thou 
where mirth sits on the painted cheek ; 
doth it not seem ashamed 
and grow immoderate to brave it out? 
O what a humble garb true joy puts on. 
Those who want happiness must stoop to find it : 
it is a flower that grows in every vale. 
Vain, foolish man that roams on lofty rocks ! 
Where, because his garments are swollen with wind,
he fancies he is grown into a giant.