But more enduring glory
Shall settle on his head
Who blest Salvation's story
Shall o'er thy desert spread.
THE ORDINATION.
Up to thy master's work! for thou art sworn
To do His bidding, till the hand of Death
Strike off thine armour.—Not among the gaudes,
And pomps and pleasures of this fleeting world
Is thy vocation.—Thy deep vow denies
To hoard its gold,—or truckle for its smile,
Or bind its blood-stained laurel on thy brow,—
—A nobler field is thine.—The soul!—The soul!—
That is thy province,—that mysterious thing,
Which hath no limit from the walls of sense.—
No chill from hoary Time,—with pale decay
No fellowship,—but shall stand forth unchang'd
Unscorch'd amid the resurrection fires,
To bear its boundless lot of good or ill,
And thou dost take authority to aid
This pilgrim-essence to a throne in Heaven
Among the glorious harpers, and the ranks
Of radiant seraphim and cherubim,
Thy business is with that which cannot die,—
Whose subtle thought the untravel'd universe
Spans on swift wing, from slumbering ages sweeps
Their buried treasures, scans the vault of Heaven,
Weighing its orbs of light, and pointing out
