我喜欢教堂;我喜欢斗篷;我爱灵魂的先知;在我的心上，隐修的通道，如甜蜜的旋律，或沉思的微笑;然而，尽管他的信仰很坚定，我还是不愿意成为一个傲慢的牧师。我所不能忍受的背心，为什么要引诱他呢?年轻的菲迪亚斯带来了他那可怕的朱庇特，这并非出于虚荣或浅薄的想法;惊心动魄的德尔菲神谕从来不会出自狡诈之口;《圣经》的重担从大自然的心中滚出来;国家的连载，像火山的火舌，从下面燃烧的核心升起，——爱与悲哀的颂歌;那手环绕着彼得的圆顶，抚摸着基督教罗马的过道，以一种悲伤的真诚; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew;-- The conscious stone to beauty grew. Knowst thou what wove yon wood bird's nest Of leaves and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone, And Morning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the Pyramids; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For out of Thought's interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air; And Nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat. These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fames of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispters to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise,-- The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. His words are music in my ear. I see his cowlèd portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.