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If admiration is a source of joy,
What transport hence! yet this the least in heaven.
What this to that illustrious robe He wears
Who toss'd this mass of wonders from His hand,
A specimen, an earnest of His power?
'Tis to that glory, whence all glory flows,
As the mead's meanest floweret to the sun
Which gave it birth. But what this Sun of heaven?
This bliss supreme of the supremely bless'd?
Death, only Death, the question can resolve.
By Death, cheap-bought the' ideas of our joy;
The bare ideas! solid happiness
So distant from its shadow chased below.